A BitterSweet Catastrophe
by Pointy Objects
Summary: I am fairly agile. I can bend and not break. Or I can break and take it with a smile. And I am so resilient. I recover quickly. I'll convince you soon that I am fine.
1. A Revelation

Interviewer: So, Pointy Objects, this is your third story?

Pointy Objects: Well, my fourth altogether, but yes my third on this website.

Interviewer: And how does this one differ from your other stories here on this website?

Pointy Objects: Well, it's a lot more emotional, but not melodramatic.

Interviewer: One last question. Do you really think you can handle a third story?

Pointy Objects: Well, I think that if I…

Interviewer: I mean, aren't you the one who waited until the END of Spring Break to finish writing your Mark Twain report?

Pointy Objects: Well, I had a lot to do that-

Interviewer: And weren't you the same one who waited almost two weeks to turn in that Spanish assignment?

Pointy Objects: It was one little homework!! Ms. Gibson said it still counted!

Interviewer: But do you really think someone like you can handle another story? Procrastination is frowned upon here, and you seem to have it in spades. What do you have to say for yourself??

My sister: Antoinette!!! If you don't wake up in the next ten seconds, I'm not driving you to school!!!

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YOU MUST READ THIS: Wonderful fascination, isn't it? Except for the part where my sister wakes me up. That's not really a fascination…it happens every morning. Anyhoo, it's kinda how I feel about this story. I'm not sure if I have the time, endurance, or talent to pull off a third story. I mean, some of the best writer's on this board don't even have three stories, and even the one's that do, somehow manage to keep them interesting. Oh well, we'll see how this goes, and if worse comes to worse, I'll have to put it on hiatus for a little while. At the beginning, you will understand nothing. It's like where only a few characters in the story understand something, and the one that doesn't know finds out as you find out, so don't get mad if your confused by certain things. And I'll explain my dedication at the end of the story, or close.

Summary: I can't really give one without giving everything away. It's sad, but not a death-fic. Genres include: Romance, Angst, Tragedy-ish, the usual…Okay, here goes!

One more thing: this story is dedicated to my mom, the very symbol of perseverance.

A BitterSweet Catastrophe

Chapter One: A Revelation

"Nine o five… nine o nine… nine twelve…" 

'Nine Twelve? Not too bad. Most guys in the school can't even run a nine-minute mile.

I pretend to stretch while the last of the girls finish their fourth and last lap around the track. Of course, my limbs are sore, and I'm excessively tired. But how am I still able to run? It would have just been easier to sulk around and feel sorry for myself. But that's not possible…for me anyway.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those tear-jerking Oprah people who survive because they have the will to live. Yeah, I wanna live. But that's not why I'm alive today. In truth, I'm too busy to die, or worry about dying. For me, it's like having a car. It's not necessarily a lemon, but it's got a few bugs. And even if it's not your first car, you're so happy to have it, you don't wait around for it to break down. It's just there.

Eventually, it's time to give Coach Summers the bad news. I know she'll be just devastated. Yeah, right.

"Nine Twelve.", I pant, still tired. I don't bother to check if she writes it down correctly. The last two girls are a quarter of a lap off, so she pries her eyes from the tattooed brown clipboard for a second.

"You're slowin' down, Pataki. Pick up the pace."

Pick up the pace? If I pick it up anymore, I'll go into cardiac arrest. Honestly sometimes I don't get why I even stay on this team. It's just a few real athletes, stuck with some little girls who couldn't make it on any other team.

I don't need to be here. Most of the girls have left to snatch up the best shower stall in the locker room. I would join them, seeing as I desperately need a shower after **that **run. But I'd rather not let the team see clumps of hair falling amongst my pale white feet.

The school's not far from home, so I just start to walk instead of waiting for a late bus. It's early October, and in truth, I shouldn't even be outside at all. Big Bob and Miriam are already mad because I'm working _and_ on the team.

"Practice was…?"

How could I possibly forget? This was the very route by which I stalked him down practically every day of my childhood.

"…Ugh", I reply, not bothering to go into detail. "Yours?"

"Hmm…", I can't quite tell if he's mimicking me or had an honestly bad practice. From as far back as I can remember, Arnold had always had a passion for baseball, and had enough talent to share. From the dirt and grass stains on his arms, legs and clothes, he'd obviously been in the same mindset as me and didn't bother to change afterwards.

"You okay? You look tired."

Why did he have to do that? Why did he have to care about everyone all the time? At first encounter, his concern would be refreshing. But to others, it is easily mistaken for intrusion. What is the world coming to where kindness is a crime?

"I'm fine. Practice was a little harsh today." Lie. What? Was I supposed to tell him everything right then and there? Was I supposed to spill my entire life story out to him, right there in the street? No. He'd probably try to throw some sunshine somewhere in there, when clearly it was gray skies. Right now, I don't need optimism. I'm not even sure if I need anyone.

"Well, see ya later." he said, before turning and advancing down the street.

Were we at Vine Street already? I glanced down the street, and sure enough, there's Green Meats. I guess I was closer than I thought.

"Bye", I replied, knowing well that he was too far down the street to hear me clearly. To the right, the sun was a ball of bright pink, ready to dive into a sea of orange, yellow and crimson. I knew it was late now, the sun retreating behind a sea of orange, pink and crimson. My pace didn't quicken, I'm not one to rush myself. Near my home, the streetlights have begun to flicker on and off, signaling their rebirth. For a minute, I contemplate sitting on the stoop for a while, and just watch the sun set, but I don't need a scolding from four people today, five if you count myself.

Inside, I can smell dinner, some food I can't identify, and wish I could stay to eat. Oh well. I'll pick something up from work. I trudge upstairs, barely. My legs are still aching from running. How am I supposed to stand on them for the next five hours?

My uniform for work is simple. Anything decent and a royal blue smock with "**Wall to Wall**" in bold white letters on the front. I have to hurry and change into jeans and a plain black sweater, before throwing on a coat and scarf. I ignore my gloves, sitting idly on my desk, begging to be worn since last winter. It's not quite cold enough for them. I take a spare moment to glance at my watch. Great, I have thirteen minutes to get across town.

But, before I can even make it to the door, I've got an interrogation to pass.

"I'll be back at 10:30", I say, before the question can even be asked. It's not as if they don't know where I'm going. They're my parents. I've been working at the bookstore since February.

"Sweetie, I don't think it's a very good-"

Sweetie? Oh Goodness, here we go. I cut her off before she can even finish. "Mom, c'mon. Really, I'm fine.", say, drawing out the words as much as possible. "And Dr. Hamilton said I should try to lead my life as normally as possible. I'm okay." Am I trying to reassure them or myself? Am I the one who needs more convincing? No, no I'm fine. "I gotta go." I utter, just before going through the door. If I didn't get out of there when I did. I probably wouldn't have left with dry eyes.

"Sir, I really don't think we have anymore left. Try checking in next week." Why did this guy insist on testing me? I choose to ignore him for the remainder of my shift, and let Sarah or Zach take care of it. They have a better tolerance for annoying customers than I do.

"Be right back…" I say to Sarah, who nods in reply, and scoots to the cash register to take my place. As soon as I step from be hind the booth, I feel dizzy. I shouldn't have waited until I got to work to take my medication.

The employee bathroom is small and cramped, and smells like cheap soap. I turn on the faucet, and let it run until I get all of my pills out. Hourly, I have to take two pills, and every four hours another one. Despite the needed strength my doctor says these pills will provide, I'd rather not have to take them. Each one is like a miniature bomb inching it's way down my throat. I hate it.

Outside my gray, porcelain lined cell, the store is practically empty. It's ten minutes until closing time, and the only people left are the very desperate book seekers and a few disgruntled youths trying to finish off their last cappuccino. And the employees of course. All the tables are wiped off, and the lights over the children's and magazine section are going off. I glance at my watch for the millionth time today. 9:43 PM. I'm sure Kevin won't mind me leaving seventeen minutes early. And if he does, whatever. And if, by chance, he does fire me, it'll just save me the trouble of a two weeks notice.

I don't bother to say goodbye to anyone. Half of the store is pitch black, and no doubt most of the staff is behind the store burning time until 10:00.

It is NEVER a good idea to walk around New York at 10:00 at night. The partygoers and club hoppers usually don't get started until 11:00 at the earliest, but muggers and thieves work around the clock. The most walking I do at this time of night is from one bus stop to another.

From the cold, blue bus, I can distinctly make out half of the faces of the passerby, seeing as most of them are my classmates. It'd be easier and faster for me to just drive home, but there's always the risk of me falling asleep at the wheel. But, then again, how do I know the bus driver won't fall asleep? No, that's ridiculous. The bus driver isn't me. He's not sick.

Back on my block, the kitchen and living room light still shine through the window. They're waiting. The bus stops a few houses before mine, and I have a precious 2 minutes and 18 seconds to list all the reasons why I shouldn't put myself under house arrest. By the time I get to the door, I'd only concocted three legitimate alibis: (1) The air outside is actually cleaner than the air inside, (2) Life is too short to live so much of it indoors and (3) Despite the fact that I don't have any brothers, I very well wouldn't want to wound up like those Flowers in The Attic kids.

Inside, the scent of dinner has faded away, and most of the lights on the first floor are still on. I might as well face the beasts now, instead of delaying it. Either way, they'll just stalk me to my room.

"I'm home." I announce. Why do I even bother? They already know I'm here. I'm beginning to think they've attached a monitor somewhere on my body, just so they don't have to worry too much. But then again, Big Bob and Miriam were never accused of worrying too much.

Granted, Big Bob and Miriam were never "Parents of the Year", but since the outbreak of my…"condition", it seems like they do try harder. But, sometimes they lay it on a little thick. Maybe their just making up for lost time. Or maybe I'm just not used to someone asking me where I've been when I come home twelve minutes after curfew, or interrogating me as to where exactly I'm going dressed like "that". But overall, their pretty okay parents, and for now that'll have to do.

I walk into the living room, and, oh great, they're staring. I can tell dad muted the T.V.; Vanna White is still turning letters, but no applause, no sound. I know they must be worried; Mom's got that sad, faraway look, like she's been thinking long and hard all day. For a moment, I wanted them to stop worrying. Them worrying made me worry. I didn't need to WORRY. Because even now, worrying made me tired.

Wow, that took some time for me to write. I originally wrote it as a one-shot, then I wrote it in a shorter version with different characters as a short story for my Creative Writing class. If there's any thing you guys don't get (I imagine there's a lot) please just ask. But no flamers!! I openly accept constructive criticism, but flamers are in my opinion, pointless. So none, please! Thank You!

-Pointy Objects


	2. A Slap From Reality

Chapter 2...hoped you liked Chapter one. One more thing before I start…

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HERE'S THE DEAL: I LOVE YOU ALL DEARLY…YOUR ALL VERY CLOSE TO MY HEART. BUT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS ARNOLD, STOP TRYING TO FIGURE EVERYTHING OUT! IT'S CHAPTER ONE FOR GOODNESS SAKE! I KNOW YOU'RE GONNA BADGER ME TILL I CRACK BUT LEMME TELL YA, I DON'T CRACK EASY…SO, WATCH YOUR BACK. AND REVIEW!

killer scissors- Yeah, it's from Helga's point of view. Sorry about Flowers In The Attic…It's such a weirdly intriguing book. See you at school!

MizCam- I have a fan! Really, you're too nice! Thanks for reviewing!

Jae B- No! NO! You haven't figured it out, and you won't because I haven't told you yet! So there, genius boy! Just kidding, but thank you for not telling anyone!

TheBaldOneMpls- If you think I'm gonna do what I think I'm gonna do, then you're probably thinking the same thing I'm thinking. And if you think I'm thinking what you're thinking I'm thinking, then I think you're thinking the same thing I'm thinking you're thinking I'm thinking. And if YOU understood that…then you need a nap, cuz I do too. Thanks for the review!

Ahhelga- I swear, you are the nicest person! Lord, everybody needs to review like you…do happen to have any, hypnotic devices that can be transmitted over the internet to…just kidding, thanks for the review. (But really, do you?)

Smoking Panda- Was that a (good) "hmm…interesting" or (a here we go again with another Helga feeling bad for herself I'll pretend to read it while I secretly despise it) "hmm…interesting"? Cuz I prefer the first one! Thanks for the review.

swords rock- I'm not even speaking to you. No, I'm giving you a hint or a clue, or a…let me get my thesaurus…cue, indication, inkling, notion, wind, tip, innuendo, insinuation, undertone. Yeah, you get none of the above. Thanks for the review!

Brat Child2- Oh come on, Brat Child, not you too! If everybody figures out her "condition" no one will read. So as of now, everybody pretend you're completely confused, and you have no idea of what's going on! Thank you for the review!

RuffMaster- Hola there! Sorry about Helga being the main character (again) I relate to her better than the other characters (girls) so it's just easier for me to write about it. Too late to change it now. Not to mention the reviews…love the reviews! Thanks for submitting one!

InuYasha's Kagome- No! I'm not telling you, you can't make me! I won't do it!! Sorry, I got a little crazy there. It's just…everybody's trying so hard to figure it out…it's so hard! Okay, thank you so much for the review, you're reviews are always really nice!

Silver Kitten- Thank You so much! I really wrote the first chapter a long time ago, so I didn't really think it was all that good. I fell like I have to show a different side to Helga's parents than in most other stories (they're the complete opposite from in Back Home). Everyone's got their preferences, I guess. Thank you for noticing!

Starry Nights- Yes, I love Flowers in the Attic, and the 2nd book, Petals on the Wind. Haven't read any more though, it's all about her 2nd son and Chris from then on. But thank you for reviewing!

Vampire-Athyna- You're too sweet. Your stories are also very, very well written. Don't sweat updating, I haven't updated Ruthless or Back Home in forever (but I will, soon!) Thank you for the review!

And to all I forgot, so sorry! My friend Katie dished out a bunch of compliments about this story to another friend of mine, so I'm eager to put this up. It's not quite the best, but I like it. Hope you do too!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hey Arnold…at all.

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Chapter 2: A Slap From Reality

November 2nd

"C'mon, girls. Team meeting."

I suddenly have a sharp pain in my stomach, but that may have been from the rather large lunch I had not one hour ago. Today is the fateful day where I have to break yet another tidbit of bad news off to Coach Summers. It's been at least three weeks since Mom and Dad issued the command. I won't say I was completely broken up by it, but I refused to speak to either of them for the next week or so. I stalled enough though, saying that I'd tell her the day after our big meet against South Hillside, which wasn't big at all. In fact the turnout was worse than ever, fifty or so people…total. Then I claimed that she'd vacationed to Texas for a week, and I couldn't get a hold of her. Or did I say Oklahoma? Wonderful, I can't even keep a track of my own lies.

The steep, crooked concrete steps leading to the track field have never seemed more steep or more crooked. If I don't reach the bottom soon, I may die of acrophobia. In the distance, I can see the entire track team (minus myself) doing sit-ups in the grassy center of the track field which is also (rather conveniently) the football field, and obviously not enjoying it.

"Coach Summers…" I whisper, hoping she won't hear me. But then I remember that she'd got more ears than the government. She probably heard me before I said anything, I was certainly thinking it loud enough.

"Your late, Pataki…" she replied, not so much as turning around. I swear this woman has eyes in the back of her head.

"Can I talk to you for a second." This is going to be anything but easy.

"What about…?" she says turning around. If ever there was a surlier woman known to man, she was this one. You can tell how her entire day was just from being within two feet of her. And today, she wasn't in much of a "talking" mood. Maybe I can stall for a few more days…or weeks. But of course, there's a down side to every idea I have. I'd slack off the least little bit, and Coach Summers would notice, and inform the principal who would call home, and that's just be the end of it. Mom and Dad would know I haven't quit the team, thus landing me in more trouble I care to think about right now.

300 words, four pages, in by next Tuesday. An essay on what? The Da Vinci Code? The Biography of Thurgood Marshall? No. Because of course, writing such a ridiculously long report on such books wouldn't be quite as tedious and redundant. Instead, my teacher (the psychotic one that she is) is making me (yes, ME) write an essay on…The Prince and The Pauper. Yeah, it's an easy book, and yes it's not even all that hard to understand. But the last time I actually read it was sixth grade when Phoebe gave me copy for my flight to North Dakota. And even then, I can't say I enjoyed it all that much. So while everybody else gets to read their dog eared copies of The Catcher in the Rye, I have to fish around under my bed for my book that I received 700 million years ago. That or pay $8.50 for a new one. And money isn't what I'd call…abundant, seeing as my last paycheck is fast approaching.

I wasn't quite as broken-hearted when mom and dad told me I had to "sacrifice" my job, as when I had to out and out quit the team. Not that I don't like my job, there are times when it's actually bearable. But then with Mark breathing down my back every thirty seconds, every body else treating me like some leper, and then there are the Harry Potter releases. I swear, I don't get out of there until midnight comforting thirteen (sometimes thirty) year olds, that a new shipment will be in in 2 days, and they won't be the tortured object of the school bus (or water cooler) until then. People sometimes…crimeny. So long to my employee discount. It actually came in handy every once in a while.

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The Prince and the Pauper, by Mark Twain, is a wonderfully intricate satire of the social distinctions between the

One, Two, Three, …Nineteen? Great, only 281 more words. Maybe if I use big words she'll accidentally count them as two. I'm too bored for this. I write better when it's due the next morning. I hear snack break…

If Olga buys any more can of cat food, she'll practically own the Fancy Feast Corporation. Sometimes I think he eats better than all of us. For some reason (that is still unknown to me) I had the impulse to come over to Olga's house today. It's homier than our house, and slightly quieter. And thank goodness, far less interrogations. I can walk up to her door, ring the bell, and not have to worry about more than a cheery hello and a hug. That and Gilligan trying to gnaw at my ankles.

Why on earth anyone would name their cat "Gilligan" is beyond me. It's a nice name and everything, but it only has one link. It's not as though he was even worthy of having the island named after him. Frankly, the Professor would be a better name for the fat ball of fuzz, or Ginger. But then again, it's none of my business. Heck, he's not even my cat.

Olga always keeps one room furnished for me, just in case I do decide to pop over, or I've just had a fight with Dad over something stupid. Or both. It was simple, perfect for short visits. A bed, small and clean, which is fine with me, a small table, and a few other essentials. The alarm clock was always set for half an hour before school started, in case I collapsed on the bed, and didn't wake up until the next day. I'm sure Dave gets tired of me, coming by his house all the time, eating his food, fattening his cat. But, he never complains. Not from what I've heard anyway.

I don't think I'll be spending the night here tonight. In fact, I'd better go home now, otherwise, Mom and Dad will be sipping coffee and going over my profile with the police, and posting photos of me on milk cartons. Do they do that anymore? Anyway, I think it's time to get going, before anybody gets home and start asking questions. I can't very well say that I don't love this house, but I can't say this isn't a relief leaving.

__

Olga and Dave,

Thanks for the room. Gone home, see ya later.

Helga

P.S. Fed Gilligan. Just so ya know. Bye.

It's simple enough. Had it been Olga, she would have littered it with a bunch of hearts and flowers and junk that no one appreciates at the end of the note. No tape, so I just slip it in the crack of the door, so if and when they open it, it's right there. Or it'll fall on the floor, and Gilligan will devour it, and they'll spend the whole evening wondering why there's one less Ho-Ho in the box and why Gilligan is one can of Fancy Feast fatter.

Olga gets all peeved when (and this may be the only thing she really gets upset about) the screen door isn't completely closed. And now, since it's windy and everything, the door swings open and knocks against the side of the house, so I make sure to shut it. Turning around, I can't say I'm too thrilled about my first encounter.

"Hey, you were a no-show at practice today…"

That's right. Practice just let out. I need to remember to time my escapes better. "Um, Yeah. Olga needed me to babysit today." Funny how I'm coming up with lies so easily now. I used to have to plan them out ahead of time, but now, they just sorta spill out of my mouth.

Arnold looked a little perplexed, not that I blame him. After all it was a little weak. "Your sister has a kid? When'd that happen?"

Good Grief. I'll be lucky if I remember anything today. Next to Phoebe, Arnold may be one of the few people who aren't related to me, but know more about my family than those who are. He was at their wedding, and he'd probably be updated whether Olga had a kid or not.

"No,…her cat." I say, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for that big, stupid cat. I'll have to remember to pick up some of those nasty little herring fish strips he seems to like so much.

"Coach Summers let you off for that?" he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. It was a little unexpected; Coach Summers wasn't one to let anybody miss or be late for a practice unless in the most dire of consequences. Coach Scots, who coaches football across the campus from us, once had to interrupt our practice because his "boys" couldn't differentiate between his shouting and hers.

"Yeah, well. I didn't exactly tell her what I was babysitting…" This is starting to get confusing…I'm now lying about a lie I never told.

"That's cool. Babysitting your sister's cat, I mean…" he replied, breaking the silence. He tried so hard. Even a task as menial as looking after a cat, had a bright side, and who better to discover it? I will say, however, it is very hard to maintain a gloomy attitude around him for long. Which is fine with me.

"How was practice?" Maybe if I directed him away from mine, he'd forget about it all together. And even if it didn't…it was worth the try.

It took him a minute to reply. "It was good. Coach says I'm probably going to be starting pitcher for the Greensville game next Thursday." If he wasn't beaming with pride when I first saw him, he was now.

"Cool. I'll be sure to drop by and see it."

Little did I know, until about a minute later, a strange look swept his face, I couldn't quite read it, but I knew I'd said some thing wrong or…revealing.

"What?" I replied, hoping to lessen whatever fault I'd admitted in my now idiotic reply.

"How can you?' he asked, switching his duffel bag to his other shoulder.

"How can I what?' Maybe I wasn't confused. Maybe he'd heard me wrong. Maybe not.

"How can you make it to my game? The track team has a meet at North Hillsdale the same day."

How I didn't faint right there in the street, don't ask. My face seemed to freeze up completely, I couldn't tell how my face looked or what expression it wore. This probably would have been the end of me, had I not concocted some lie that may have very well save my butt…again.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, right. I guess that's what I get for missing a practice…" I say, dramatically slapping my forehead, as I oftentimes do when I say something stupid. And it's very clear that I've just said something stupid. Before I realize it, we're three houses from mine, and I "volunteer" to deliver their now empty trashcans to each of their homes. "See ya later." I say, feeling the least bit guilty.

"Yeah, I'll see ya around." He says, before turning around and heading in the other direction. It did make me a little sad to see him go. Besides a few select people, I found myself opening up to him very much unlike I had with others. It would have been a relief to just tell him and be done with it; he's (more or less) the only person that it's been a challenge keeping this from.

Soon, though, I'll be able to have a complete conversation with somebody and not worry myself to death over whether or not they can read my mind. People are very strange like that sometimes, they can almost pick you apart piece by piece until every intimate detail of your very being is out there in the street. I give up after the Carlson's trashcan. I don't even bring mine in, so sad. Shutting the door behind me, I lazily drop my things on the kitchen table. Try as I may, I fall asleep within ten minutes or so, and wait for Mom and Dad to come home, and usher me upstairs for a few more hours of uninterrupted slumber.

Not sure if that answered any of your questions (seeing as most of them were "What does she have?") You'll find out, promise. Actually, you'll probably get it before the end, Chapter 5 at the earliest. If you know anything about it, it's very obvious to figure out. I read this to my sister and she asked why I always say "Mom and Dad", and why Miriam isn't in the house as much anymore. This is my favorite part, I think it'll put it up next chapter or Chapter 4. Much love and review!

-PointyObjects


	3. Pants On Fire

Oh crap…am I confusing people? I've gotten 2 reviews where people are confused…what'd I do? I'M SORRY! Okay, synapsis of the previous chapter (I'll do this for every chapter if that's what you guys want):

Chapter 2: Begins with Helga having to quit the track team because of constant badgering from her parents. She has already quit her job. You don't actually hear her quit her job or the team because I like to be mysterious and I'm a dork (at least that's what my boyfriend tells me).

Chapter Break

The chapter picks up again with her in her sister's house. She goes through the motions of doing homework, feeding her sister's cat, blah, blah, blah. (This all occurs right after school.) Upon leaving Olga's house to go to her own, she is intercepted by Arnold, who is unaware of her condition and her resignation from the team and asks why she was not at practice. Arnold is NOT on the track team, he is on the BASEBALL team. Anyway, she makes up an excuse about babysitting Olga's cat, then catches herself in a lie when she has to pretend about knowing about a track meet. She makes up an excuse because, seeing as she's no longer on the track team, she won't be there. The chapter ends with her going home, and falling asleep on her kitchen table.

It sounds sucky when I put it like that, but if it'll help you guys, I'm willing to compromise. Alert me if this chapter is anymore confusing. ENJOY!

Chapter 3: Pants on Fire

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November 15th

For some inane reason, Phoebe has agreed to give me a ride to school from now on. I guess she doesn't want me walking around in what in what my parents would call "this weather". I don't thoroughly understand that, we had two inches of snow, and suddenly, I can't go outside without 14 million layers of waterproof clothing…good grief.

The only problem, as of now, is that Phoebe doesn't have a car. Which brings us to problem number two: Gerald. I can't really say he's a problem, just a…roadblock. So basically, Phoebe giving me a ride is really Gerald giving me a ride. Wonderful.

Obviously, Phoebe hasn't told him about me (I'd like to keep I that way); he hasn't treated me any different than he has in the past 4 years. Since freshman year, or at least a month or so afterwards, they have become what I call a "Public Item" (Goodness knows how long those little eggs of truth were waiting to hatch, and it's a bit too cold to bother counting). So, since then, everything's been the same, for the most part. Gerald puts up with me, I tolerate him, it's a big nasty cycle. He's used to it, Phoebe's used to it, I'm used to it.

The backseat is overall comfortable, seeing as I have it all to myself. The heat is turned on, making me sweat a little underneath my mountain of clothing. The radio's on, but turned down so low that is barely audible. For a moment, I contemplate going to sleep, even thought the entire back seat is leather, and unless it's very warm, it isn't the best thing for sleeping on. But as soon as the thought enters my head, something else enters my line of vision: school.

In truth, I'm not really feeling up for school today. As we pull up (I guess I can't really say "we"; it's technically not my car) I try to find something to stare at other than the mass of people standing outside. For some reason, I tried to bite my fingers through my gloves this morning, and now the very tips of them look like I'm wearing 4-inch acrylics underneath. Part of it (my worrying mind you, not my gloves) is from spending most of the morning wondering if Gerald was giving me this ride because Phoebe had said something she shouldn't have, and the other part because I didn't eat breakfast. Not the best idea…I know, but Miriam's half-baked breakfasts aren't what I'd call "appetizing".

Mom tries, I know. And for the past 3 years, I've stomached her half-baked breakfasts for reasons that have nothing to do with her falling asleep behind our couch.

Rewind my morning four years, and you'd find Dad searching the house for some inane accessory that is supposed to ensure a healthy rise in sales, and mom asleep on or behind the couch for some reason that I don't care to pry into. But then, out of nowhere, Dad's company nearly goes belly up. Turns out workers were getting paid for doing near nothing, the assembly line was clearly inefficient, and the man in charge of handling a large portion of the company's profits wasn't exactly honest with all of the totals. **Big Bob's Beepers **was about to become a parking lot.

But then, out of nowhere, comes…Mom? Don't ask me where she learned Business Management and Accounting, but needless to say, she saved Dad's company from bankruptcy. She garnished the workers wages to how much they actually worked. After firing the less than trustworthy treasurer, she filed a suit for embezzlement of company funds and questionable accounting practices…and won. After a year or so, Dad thought it was only fair that since she'd done so much for the company, it'd be slightly unethical for it to still be called **Big Bob's Beepers**. So, as of two years ago, my parents have been the sole owners of five different electronic stores, rightfully named **Pataki Electronics**, within the tri-county area.

Before I can get (or climb rather) out of Gerald's monstrosity of a vehicle, I have to wait for Phoebe to get out and pull her seat forward. Two door cars are one of the worst inventions man has cursed himself with. But there's not much I can do about that.

"Thanks for the ride…" I say, already walking towards the school. It's a bit too cold to stand out here for too long. Gerald says something to Phoebe, and I can't quite make out what it is. Who cares, as I said, it is too cold to stand out here and ask stupid questions.

It's early, and hopefully there is no love-struck couple making out making out in front of my locker. The hallways are pretty empty, which is a plus. When the hallways are packed with people, then it's bad. Since that means there's a fight nearby. People like to paint HillWood as a safe little suburban town/city, but their wrong. We've got problems just like everybody else, as does our school. I'm not saying we're a bad town, but we're certainly not perfectly either.

For the first time in what seems like years, there is a five-foot radius surrounding my locker that is completely devoid of people. My combination isn't complicated, so I'm in and out of my locker within 2 minutes or so. Just as I'm about to make my escape, a rather delicious scented bag is thrust into my face, aided by a single-worded command:

"Eat."

"How'd you know?" I ask, after swallowing the last of my last hash brown. When someone tells you to eat, and you've skipped breakfast, it's usually wise to follow.

"Know what?" Arnold says, replying with a question, which he knows I hate.

"That I didn't eat…" I say; rattling the McDonald's cup around for the remains of orange juice. The thin cubes of ice, now melted into sheets make a tinkling sound inside the cup as I set it down.

"I didn't. I just bought some extra has browns and thought I'd give them to you."

"Why didn't you give them to Gerald?" I ask, without thinking. I can't just say "Thank You" and move on like a normal person. I have to distrust everyone and their intentions.

"Do you think Gerald really would have been satisfied with only two has browns?"

"Well,…thanks all the same." I reply, crumpling up the bag, ready to hurl it into the nearest trashcan.

"I don't do it for the thanks." he says, smiling.

Then why does he do it? Does he have an "in" with the school nurses? Did Phoebe spill something to him in secret? I'm starting to get a headache, I need to get to class.

"Well, thanks anyway. Bye." I mumble, hoisting my book bag over my shoulder, and walking into opposite direction of the lockers we were leaning against. I'm just a tad too paranoid to talk right now.

B-. B-. B-. B-. B-. B-. B-. B-.

Despite the "Nice Work" plastered on the top, nearly smothering my name in red ink, all I can see is that stupid mark:

B-

All because I used pan. Oh well, can't say I wasn't warned. She said she'd deduct 10 points for not using pencil, and that she did. Frankly, I don't like pencils, and all the other teachers encourage us to use pen, and here, one teacher has to be different.

I've found it a little more difficult to keep my grades "up" lately, if that's what you'd like to call them. I've never been a straight A student, mostly because I never tried. I'd fail a test on purpose, come home, tell my parents, and hope for some kind of "punishment". Call it a sick cry for attention, but it didn't work, so who cares. After that, I actually tried to keep up a decent GPA, and even though I'm still not a straight A student, I can't complain. Not too much anyway.

It's only…11:27, and I have to go to the bathroom again. It really is becoming a pain, but not big enough to skip a day. The school bathrooms are several times worse than the ones at work. The walls are littered with declarations of love in permanent marker, wads of toilet paper hanging from the ceiling, and cigarette butts scattered on the floors. If the boys bathroom is worse, the only difference I can imagine is a urinal thrown in here and there.

I could very well go to the bathroom in the nurses office, the only clean one on campus. The only problem with that is the short trek from my locker to pick up my jacket that's too big to carry around, outside and in between the two athletic fields, into the media center, across the parking lot, and into the school's office building, dodging the "Write her up, she's skipping…" look I get from every administrator I pass. That and having to explain my dilemma to the school nurses, even though they already know the situation. Being sick is very tiring.

There's only a few other girls in the bathroom, thank goodness none are smoking. It's not unusual to see a perfectly manicured hand passing a lit cigarette to another and let out a short, surprised gasp whenever the doors crack. I guess I look odd, popping one pill after another in my mouth, struggling to get them down even though I'm supposed to take them with water. One in particular makes me drowsy in no time flat, and by the time I'm out of the bathroom, I can barely see two feet in front of me.

According to my memory, or lack there of, this is where I blacked out. But according to the administrator, 2 freshman, and janitor, this is where I got the stupid goose egg that probably won't go away for a few weeks…

Yeah, this chapter sucked, especially the end. I've got too much on my mind. I wanted to put this up November 15th (you know why killer scissors…) but oh well. A few hours late is no big deal. Hope you enjoyed the small portions that didn't suck! Review, and don't be afraid to tell me if your confused. Peace out!

-PointyObjects


	4. Realize, Rectify, Scrutinize, Satisfy

****

READ IT NOW: Before I start this chapter, I realize that my dedication was a tweeny bit selfish. Yes, I love my mom, but there are a lot of people who have had it worse than me. So, in addition to mi Madre, this story is also dedicated to my best friend, Andrea and my other friend Carl, and to their families, all of whom have suffered losses that I hope no one will ever have to experience.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hey Arnold, or the song below…

Chapter 4: Realize, Rectify, Scrutinize, Satisfy

Well I'd lock my hands behind my head,

I'd cover my heart and hit the deck,

I'd brace myself for the impact if I were you.

Dashboard Confessional- Am I Missing

January 18th

Birdhouses. They're pretty extraordinary little pieces of architecture, aren't they? I mean, they're not like "people" houses, of course. They don't need plumbing and mirrors and three piece dinette sets. But they are homes, nonetheless. And though they can't appreciate it, I personally think it's nice to give them something to look at while their "home-shopping". Of course they can't decipher it, but it's the thought that counts.

Yeah right.

At first, I suppose it was a good idea. Considering the mood I was in, it wasn't really like me to break out my bright blue acrylic paint on one of these days. But I did, and a thin black permanent marker to boot. The poem wasn't bad, I'd managed to fit all of it on one side of the birdhouse, writing immaculate and tiny. After an hour, four different paintbrushes, two Peach Iced Tea Snapples, and my 2004 Warped Tour Compilation CD, my wrist started to hurt, and painting became a sloppy and frankly boring activity.

I tried pacing the house for a little while, which didn't work out so well. My footing was still unstable from two days ago, and I practically fell into an end table and broke a vase. Well, actually, it wasn't really a "vase". It was a molded lump of clay I'd "made" in seventh grade and painted orange. I'd broken it several times before, but decided against hunting for Super-Glue this time and tossed all but one of the pieces into the garbage can in the kitchen.

An hour later, after a nap (or one thousand-four hundred forty successive mini-naps lasting 4 seconds each), a knock on the door distracted me from scrubbing the invisible dirt off of my old cleats and forced me to walk back down the steps.

I can't say I was thrilled to answer the door at God's-knows-what-time-in the afternoon. I could have sworn on a copper penny that my parents let me stay home from school so that I could rest, not answer the door for every door-to-door peddler in the state.

Needless to say I was hesitant about answering the door. For the past 39 hours all I'd been wearing was a pair of flannel pajama pants, a ratty T-Shirt and some bright pink slipper socks that Olga had bought for me. Not quite a sight for sore eyes…or any eyes for that matter.

"Yes?" I answered. Opening the door entirely wasn't an option. I decided to stick my mussed and muddled head out of the doorway.

"Helga, is that you?"

Good grief. Who else would make house calls to the isolated and infirmed? Of course, seeing another human being besides my parents was a nice change, but seeing another human face that I could easily find myself spilling my innards to was not nice.

"Ugh…unfortunately." I said, trying not to make any indications that I wasn't in as great as shape as I could have been.

"Are you alright? You weren't in school today and I came to drop off the notes from History, and um…" he said trailing off.

"And what?" Wonderful, he had me asking questions. If the conversation went in this direction any longer he'd be sitting at my kitchen table while I make us coffee.

"Sugar, cream…a teabag?"

"A teabag?" Arnold asked.

"Olga's thing…" I said, resting a cup of coffee on the table. I've never made "real" coffee before, so I brewed up a mug of instant. Walking around the kitchen wasn't bad, but as soon as I sat down, it took every fiber in my being to not rest my head down on the tabletop and go to sleep.

"So…how's everything?" I asked, hoping to keep the conversation as far away from me as possible.

"I could ask you the same thing. How are you? I mean, you've missed a couple of days lately, I was just wondering if something was up." he said, holding the bright yellow mug with both hands.

"I've been a little sick lately, nothing big."

"But every time I see you in class, your sleeping, or you at least look tired or something."

"Just stress, I guess." I replied with one of the vaguest answers ever invented. It almost makes you feel bad for stress. It gets blamed for everything. You can put stress on a keyboard key, but that doesn't mean it's going to start acting weird and lie to all of its friends.

"From anything in particular? Anything I can help out with?" he said, still fingering the mug. He'd bitten his pinky finger to the bone and the end was noticeably redder than the rest of his fingers.

'I'd like to just get out of this house…' I thought, turning my head in the other direction, pretending to hear something on the other side of the kitchen.

Reading my mind, Arnold decided to fill the silence. "Ya wanna go for a walk? Just for a minute, if you're not feeling up to it, that's cool…" he said, getting up.

Within ten minutes, one change of clothes and a note taped to the front door later, I found myself in 53 degree weather, strolling down a sidewalk with Arnold. And for the first time all day, we were having a conversation about something other than my well-being.

"So, he gets so mad at Mr. B, he storms out, cursing and yelling, and runs right into the assistant principle and gets suspended right there."

I tried to laugh. Honestly, I did. And nothing makes me happier than kids (Chris Peterson I particular) getting what they deserve for cursing out one of the school's best teachers. For some reason, I guess I didn't sound too enthusiastic, because the discussion drifted back into my waters.

"It's cold out, isn't it?" I asked, inadvertently blaming this portion of my grand master lie on the weather. I tried pulling my jacket closer to me, which was useless, seeing as it was almost 2 years old and a little too small for me.

"Something's going on…" Arnold said, out of pretty much nowhere. I wasn't sure where exactly he was going with this, but I could feel myself falling deeper and deeper into a trap.

Before I could say anything, he spoke again. "It's not school, and it's not stress, and it's not just you being tired. I know _something's _going on."

I tried to defend myself, but no words came out. Arnold however had no trouble speaking openly. "I'm not saying you have to tell everyone everything. Continue this façade if you want, but know that you don't have to with me."

It wasn't even below freezing outside, but I knew my face was. The temperature, aided by the wind resistance on my face kept my tears in place, until I made it home. I sat on my stoop, breathing heavily, knowing that Arnold wasn't going to chase me. He knew when I needed to be alone with my thoughts. No, he wouldn't chase me…not right now anyway.

Later on, Olga came by, Gilligan in tow. She's under the constant impression that I actually like that stupid cat, even though I do. While he nibbled on the toe of my sock, I had my second cup of coffee that morning, even though it's not really good for me. I watched the cream in Olga's cup rise and blend as she dipped a small brown teabag in and out of her mug. Though perfect in every sense of the word, she had her moments of odd strangeness.

I kept myself busy for the rest of the day, not that there was much of it left. It was almost six o'clock and the sun had already set. It made me long for being twelve years old in the summer, playing outside until it was too dark to see a foot ahead of me. Spending the whole day in my pajamas and not caring either way. But now, I am seventeen years old in the winter, longing to be outside for any reason at all. Spending the whole day in my pajamas because I'm too wimpy to go to school and tell my friends that everything is most certainly not okay.

Coming downstairs for the first time since my parents have come back home, I make my first stop in the living room. Dad always seems tired coming home from work, as if he's been unloading crates all day. I'm not trying to underestimate he importance of hiss job; it does put food on the table after all. On to the kitchen, where mom reads her latest issue of Kiplinger's, your average financial magazine, and sips at her coffee. Sitting opposite of her, I skim the cover, and try to find what could be so interesting about a magazine about money. How to have a Relaxing Retirement, The Truth about Hedge Funds and How To Make Your Money Work For You, not to mention more "riveting" articles, none of which catch my attention. Making my way to the coffee maker that I neglected earlier this morning, mom decides to speak.

"How many cups have you had today?"

"Just two." I reply, seeing as the last one didn't really count. Olga convinced me to try hers with a teabag in it, so technically that mug was tea.

"I don't think all that caffeine is good for you. No more for the rest of the night." she says, taking another sip, silently mocking me.

"Do you need me to do anything for you mom?" I asked, ignoring her refusal.

"Like what, dear?" she asks, not looking up right away. I quickly eye the trashcan in the corner.

"Oh, I don't know. Sweep the stairs, vacuum the upstairs hall…take out the trash…" I suggested. With any luck she wouldn't ask about the trashcan.

"Does the trash go out tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yeah." I fudged. The trash doesn't go out until Monday morning, but she didn't need to know that right now. "I would have done it earlier, but Olga came over and Gilligan got into it."

"That cat…I suppose. But wear a coat, and don't stay out there too long."

"I'm taking out the trash, mom," I replied, trying to calm her nerves. "Not going to a nightclub."

There's something magical about walking outside in cold weather. The winter air hits you, and something happens. Even when you're layered under two sweaters and your dad's coat, you can still feel it. My initial purpose for coming outside was to take out the trash and to go back outside. But as long as mom knew where I as and that I was properly dressed, I thought I could linger outside for a little while.

I did actually take the garbage can to the curb, thus accomplishing my said mission. Without thinking, I began to tap my fingernails on the lid of the plastic trashcan. Actually, they weren't really my fingernails, just the tips. My nails were pretty short, practically invisible apart from the silvery-blue Olga insisted that I colored them with earlier that afternoon. I couldn't identify what I was tapping right away, but I could tell it was what I called my "Piano Instincts".

"You miss it, don't you?"

I wasn't the only one taking note of my own habit that night. I wheeled just in time to see Arnold, dressed as he was before; or maybe he'd changed his coat or something. Now, Arnold was anything but frightening. But that night spaced so perfectly between those streetlights, he scared me. He scared the life out of me, and I could feel my skin getting thinner and my secret wilting.

"Everyday of sixth grade, you complained about having to take piano lessons. Look at you now." He said inching closer. I noticed I was also inching, towards the door. But before I'd made it too far before he started up again.

"Look, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable this afternoon…or if I am right now." he said, with obvious remorse.

I shook my head until I found the ability to talk again. "No…"

"It's just that…lately, no…not even lately. Since school started, you've been distracted a lot. And I feel bad that I haven't noticed until now. And I know you've probably heard this from a thousand people, but I want to be here for you, and if you-"

"No." I interrupted. I tried to purse my lips together and not look like I was on the verge of tears. But, with me, nothing goes right. As soon as I opened my mouth, I tried to suppress my breathing, which only became frantic, more panicked breathing. I can't win. "No one…no one's said that…"

Ugh…stop Helga. Stop it.

"What?" he asked. He probably can't understand for all this breathing. I need to sit down.

"I mean…Phoebe has, and my parents and Olga obviously. But…" I had to stop myself. Backing away, I fall backwards on to the stoop and try to catch my breath. Before I could, however, he'd perched himself next to me, and closed my left hand in both of his.

"I don't expect you to tell me everything right now. And, I'm sure this is really hard for you, whatever it is, but…" he began, his voice trailing off.

God, Helga

You're such a baby

Stop it. Now.

"I have to go inside now." Where this shred of common sense came from, don't ask me. The last time I went to Psych class, Ms. Sutton said something about Fight or Flight, something about how some animals will fight for territory or mates, and others just run, fly, scurry, burrow, away.

Despite my nature, flight was looking pretty nice. But my mind (and tone) changed as soon as he grabbed my arm.

"Let go of me!" I hadn't meant to be so loud; reflexes probably.

"No, something's wrong; just tell me!" I would have been bothered by his tone, except I yelled at him first, so it was validated. Besides, one thought was still on my mind.

I needed to get away. I couldn't let him see me like this. Vulnerable, scared…sick. I was already tired; it was 11:30 at night, after all. It seemed like I might have had to punch him, just once, just to get him away. Who would have guessed that my excursion to the trashcan would end in an all out fistfight with my best friend?

"Get away from me!" I shot back, flinging my arm upwards, hoping it'd loosen his grip. I tried to run towards the door, but forgot my attire. Had I been wearing my track shoes (or stayed on the team) I would have been home free. I escaped for a fraction of a second, before his powerful arm shot back out and snatched me back into captivity. I keep forgetting he's a pitcher; it's his job to snatch things out of the air.

Before I could stop or deny it, tears were running down my face. I tried to wipe them away with my free hand, but as soon as one disappears, there are five to replace it. Oh great. I'm sobbing now. I wonder if it's possible to run out of tears. If so, I pray I'm on empty.

He's probably wondering why he didn't just let me go and avoid all this mess. He has to eave. Or I have to leave. I can't tell him anything, not now at least.

"I need to go inside now…" It takes forever just to finish my sentence, and twice as long to convince myself that I won't burst into tears as soon as I'm on the other side of the door.

"What happened? You used to be able to tell me anything…" he says, his voice completely different from its prior tone.

I can't make out anything else he says. I've begun to sob again, this time soiling the entire sleeve of my dad's coat. But he's right. I never would have done this if I'd still have my backbone.

His large square fingers were still wrapped around my wrist, making it easy to lead him to the steps. He needed to sit down to hear this, and I needed to sit down to tell it.

Last summer is too early for a beginning, and last week is too late. I started with my first visit to the hospital, not really saying what is wrong, expecting the worst reaction. That visit was what essentially gave me my bad news, a "checkup" revealing the worst news I've ever gotten in my life. The procedure kept me there for a few hours, the aftermath in bed for a whole day.

"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out already…" I said, wiping my face off with my sleeve. As hard as this was becoming, or as I'd imagined it would be, the words were flowing rather easily. Arnold was a smart kid, but often very dense. He has a million questions floating around in those beautiful green eyes, but they'd be answered soon enough. I think he sensed that I was going to tell him, because his grip eased up a little.

"At first, I was able to control how I was feeling. I took my meds everyday, I ate right and I thought I'd be okay. And for a while I was." The air seemed to get all of a sudden colder. I wish I could invite him inside, if only for a minute, but then mom and dad would get mad that I've told people, and the yelling really wouldn't have helped at all. I can endure the cold. Just so long as he knows.

"…but after a while, track, and work kinda…got too hard for me to handle. I was tired all the time, my grades were slipping, and…I couldn't juggle all of this. So I quit." I hoped this would stifle any suspicions he might have had that I was suicidal. People automatically assume that when you stop being active, you're suicidal. Not me. If at all, I was willing to anything to live.

I could feel his eyes burning into mine and I hoped he could just see inside my mind so I didn't have to say anything else. I had to tell him now, as much as mind advised me to do otherwise. But if I didn't tell him right away, I might never have. Up until now, I'd avoided looking him straight in the eye, for fear I'd break out crying. But I was already crying, if not bawling uncontrollably. He'd opened his arms, ready to give comfort, and I was more than ready to stain his coat with my tears. But I couldn't. I had to look him in the eyes. He had to know I was sincere.

"Arnold…"

There was no turning back now. He had to know.

"Arnold…I have cancer."

I waited. And waited. And waited. He waited. And waited. And waited. We sat on that stoop for what felt like years. My eyes, already drowned in saline, his, wide and probably more scared than me. Part of me expected this. The part of me that gave Dr. Hamilton the same look when she told me. Hodgkin's. Cancer. I had cancer. I'm 17 years, 10 months, and 20 days old. While my other seventeen years old friends picked up their class rings, I was busy getting by tri-weekly does of chemotherapy. While they shopped for prom dresses and tuxedos, I picked up my medication from the hospitals pharmacy. And while they toasted to being young, in love, and ready to se the world, I was calculating how many sessions I'd have until I was supposed to start college.

About a minute after I'd told him, I stopped shaking. Something about how he stared forward eased my nerves. Something about how his head fit on top of mine made me feel safe. And something about how I could feel each of his own tears penetrated the part in my hair made me feel like he cared.

****

READ THIS TOO: There! So now ya know! Sorry if it's not as "GASP!" as I may have made it out to be. And the last line, I totally made up in 30 seconds…sorry if it's too sappy. I really wanted this to be longer, but oh well...

Some things I gotta clear up: Last chapter, I mentioned a "goose-egg" on Helga's head. Now I thought this came from the south, but I asked DarthRoden if he knew what I meant, and apparently it isn't. In my family, a goose egg is that annoying little lump that you get on your head when you bump it against something hard. They don't last long, but that's all I meant. Sorry. And I couldn't put this at the top of the chapter because some of you shadier characters would have skipped everything and gone straight to the "good" part. So enjoy, and review please!

Next chapter: **Make It Count**

**Special thanks to my mom for help with information, Andi for encouragement, Carl and Steve for plenty of laughs at 4 in the morning on Yahoo, and PullmanLover who was supposed to grammar check this, but I got lazy and impatient, and did it anyway (sorry...)**


	5. Make it Count

Back! And very inspired to write, seeing as I'm sick. Don't worry, I'm not "Helga-sick", just a sinus-head-stomach-throat-headache- type thing. I'll be okay. And this is going to be a short chapter. Sorry. Everyone seemed to be anticipating this chapter, so here you have it. Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Make it Count**

"_And I'm not sure what the trouble was that started all of this  
The reasons all have run away, but the feeling never did,  
It's not something I would recommend, but it is one way to live,  
Cause what is simple in the moonlight by the morning never is."_

_Bright Eyes- "Lua"_

There's a difference between being afraid and being scared. Being afraid usually has more to do with the imagination than actual fear. We're afraid of being dragged under the bed by some monster or creature. We're afraid of being alone at night in the woods. We're afraid of whatever our mind allows us to be afraid of.

Being scared, however, centers on more valid fears. When a person is scared, they usually have a good reason for being so, either because of a past experience of ours or someone else's. We're scared of drunk drivers swerving and hitting us on the freeway. We're scared of walking through an empty parking lot to our car in the middle of the night. We're scared of anything that can and very well may happen.

We're scared of dying.

And _I_ have never been so scared.

Sure, I've been here too many times to count. I volunteered here half of my sophomore year. When I had a project for my Advanced Photography class, I spent five hours or so going up and down these pastel halls snapping away. The sight of this place, unlike so many others is not the least bit daunting.

My reason for being here, however, **is**.

I know my way to the Oncology Wing with my eyes closed: Entrance, receptionist's desk to the right, go left, long hallway, another left, elevator, press the up button, close door button, floor six. Boom, you're there. But for some reason, I felt lost. Like I'd never seen this place before. The hospital I remember had annoying florescent lights, and bland paintings everywhere, and maroon waiting room chairs. This place was different. This place was…foreign.

By far, the drive over was the worst. It was totally silent, except for the sound of the wind blowing past us outside the car. Neither of us dared to make a sound. Even when a bright yellow Pontiac Sunfire with "Sexy-One" on the license plate cut me off, I didn't bother to beep the horn. The noise would have been too much of a shock now. Despite the quiet, a silent message was being exchanged between the two of us:

Don't be scared.

And frankly, I wasn't sure which one of us it was intended for.

Everything after that happened entirely too quickly. In what seemed like a matter of minutes, we were ready to go. Looking at the doctor and two nurses who were standing (more like huddling) in the corner of the room closest to the door, I saw a mixture of sympathy and something I couldn't quite identify painted on their faces. Like they were fresh out Med School. Like this was their first "procedure" of this kind. Like they hadn't done this hundreds of times before. But we all knew why. We all knew what each other was thinking even though nobody said two words about it:

_She's too young for this._

Sleep was not an option. Food was not an option. Going to the bathroom wouldn't have been an option had I not had two cups of coffee this morning to calm me down. Most of my time was spent in my chair (maroon like the ones in the waiting rooms), next to her bed, trying to keep myself as pleasantly distracted as possible.

A few hours later, one of the nurses silently brought in a pitcher of water and a few saltine crackers and turned on the television. The volume on the T.V. was on low and was turned at angle so that there was a glare on the screen, but I knew what was on. Maybe they sensed that I wanted (and very well needed) to be kept awake and turned on the T.V. to help. So, as Alex Trebek sounded off question after question and gave out money by the hundreds and thousands, I answered what questions I knew out loud, my voice making its presence known for the first time that day.

In the category of "Comics to Television", I was stumped. All the obvious answers had been given and al that was left was the impossible answers that nobody knew.

"The creator of MAD magazine that later became a hit sketch-comedy show…"

As a child, I was a comic book fiend. MAD magazine wasn't my favorite, but I knew of it. And the fact that I could name every cast member of the show for the past 5 years was of no help. When the brainiac from Missouri buzzed in with the answer (not to mention an air of confidence that said "duhhhh" to the other two contestants) "Harvey Kurtzman" the voice that accompanied him was raspy and tired.

"Hey you." it said again, and for some reason I didn't consider that it was Helga who was indeed awake and answering questions.

"Hey yourself" he replied, taking a moment to take in her current condition. Despite the tired look in her eyes and the jagged, raspy breaths she took, she was still Helga. Still a fighter. Still making herself look as strong as she needed to be. "You okay?" he asked halfway afraid of the answer.

"I'm alright…no complaints here." She replied, smiling as best she could. It was clear to anyone that looked at her that she was tired. It was clear that she needed to get out of this hospital and back home. What wasn't so clear, so obvious, so visible to anyone except those who knew her well enough to not take "I'm okay" as an answer, was that the entire time she sat on that uncomfortable hospital bed she was fighting. And it was true. She never complained. About anything. Sure, you could tell she was bummed about quitting the team, and maybe even her job, but you'd never hear anything more somber come out of her mouth than "That's how life is, I guess…" right before shrugging her shoulders and smiling that smile that almost made you stop worrying about her.

"Since when are you into comic books?" I asked, laughing a little.

"You call it comic books, I call it common sense. I can't believe you didn't know that was Harvey Kurtzman…" She sounded tired; like she'd fall asleep right then and there but something was keeping her awake.

After that episode and the repeat (to which we "coincidentally" knew all the answers to) we were done. I mean, _I_ wasn't done doing anything except sitting, but _she _was done. Within 20 minutes, she was ready to go. Because she was so weak, we were provided one of the hospital's wheelchairs so I could wheel her outside to the car.

The trip down the elevator was overall quiet, save for my occasional apologies when I rolled her over a bump in the hallway or a crack in the sidewalk. She didn't seem to mind; her head hung to the side, as if she were asleep instead of just exhausted.

It was easy to lift her into the front seat, except she tried to fight me off, which was the equivalent of asking me to stop twice and hitting me on the back that can only be compared to burping a newborn.

While I pushed the wheelchair back into the hospital and folded it up by the door (where at least fifteen other wheelchairs were stored) I wondered about the people who had inhabited even for a short time, those now empty wheelchairs and why they used them. Was one of them a mother wheeling her teenage daughter and new grandchild to their minivan? Or a husband being taken to his car after suffering a minor heart attack? There were a million other people who had reason to use wheelchairs. But how many of them were in my position?

Upon arriving at home (hers, not mine) I found it more of a struggle getting her out of the car than in. I could have swung her arm around the back of my head and lifted her out that way, but from what I've been told the pressure on her stomach from my shoulder would have been rather uncomfortable in her position. The most effective (yet far from easiest) solution was to prop both of her knees on mine, lift her out of the car by her back, then sliding the one hand under her knees and gripping the back with the other hand. A simpler term for this is "Bridal Style" but I never really understood that myself. I'd been to several weddings and no brides were ever carried like that. I could have very well let her walk, as she insisted I do, but she began shivering as soon as I opened the door, and her slow pace would probably only make her colder.

Once inside the house (difficult as it was), I decided against carrying Helga up the stairs to her room. For both of our sakes. I knew she'd probably wake up hungry, and heaven forbid she lose her footing and fall down the stairs because I put her up there. Not to mention, I hear that a girl's room is supposed to be "sacred" and entering it without prior permission could land one a slap on the face and the silent treatment for up to two weeks. Thank you, but no thank you.

So, the couch it was. Her parents seemed to know this ahead of time, because when I (as gently as I could) there was already a blanket and pillow at the far end. Don't go thinking they just left for no reason, or anything. His morning when I came and picked her up, they both looked seriously upset. Like she was gong away and was never coming back. It took me by surprise for a minute, especially when she told me that (between the two of them) they'd missed four seemingly important business meetings to go to chemotherapy with her.

With her father gone, I sat for the first time in his huge recliner (which ended up being a little too large and soft for my taste) and waited for her to uncurl herself and fall asleep comfortably. The way she laid on that couch reminded me of those caterpillar/worm things. You'd see them on the ground or on a tree branch and if you poke them, they sorta curl up into these tiny brown spirals. And after a while, if they don't sense a threat nearby, they slowly uncurl and keep going.

About two minutes after I finished my analogy, I realized it had far more significance than just her sleeping patterns. This was how she reacted to me since the very beginning. Every time I posed any sort of threat to her, her secret, her vulnerability; she curled up, an impenetrable ball of protection. And when the coast was clear, she resumed her normal activities, living her life as she thought she should. And while I contemplated this (and whether or not this creature was indeed a caterpillar and a worm) I fell asleep almost as soundlessly as she did.

Waking up in a strange place may be one of the most horrifying things a person can ever experience. Because for a millisecond, you're completely alone. You're not sure of where you are or how you got there, and your short term memory is almost nonexistent. And then, as quickly as it disappeared, everything comes back. You suddenly remember where you are and how you got there and you really have to laugh at yourself for being scared, even if for a split second.

Averting my eyes over to the couch that once held my best friend however was not so much of a laughing matter.

From what she told me, her chemo kept her in bed for most of the following day. She found it hard to move around a lot and going up and down the stairs was an obstacle without assistance. And judging by the crumpled blanket draped over the farthest corner of the couch, Helga had gotten _somewhere_, with or without assistance.

I immediately headed upstairs and checked the bathroom, thinking that she had come down with some nausea upon waking up, and felt sick. As soon as I began bounding the stairs, I heard sounds coming from the kitchen and smells that my nose had ignored.

The first question that came to mind was: _Is Helga cooking?_

Now, don't get me wrong. I was genuinely concerned that she very well may have been up and around cooking and whatnot. But a portion of this concern was left over for me, as well. As I remember from tenth grade Home Economics, we were broken up into groups of six to prepare a small meal for the class. Helga's assignment: Taco Salad. Add two parts ground beef, one part salsa, one part lettuce and one part assorted spices. Boom. Simple and delicious. Well, maybe. In a nutshell, I was happy about my absence that day, but not so much for the janitors who had to come in to clean up the…results of Helga's slightly toxic ground beef. Since then, I (and most of the high school) was wary of her "cooking".

Sliding into the kitchen ready to snatch whatever cooking utensil she was holding and order her to the nearest fluffy piece of furniture for the rest of the day, I shouted my demands before actually entering the kitchen.

"Why are you cooking? Why are you even up? You need to be in bed! What are you think-"

"Well, I'm up because it's 8:47 in the morning, and I'm cooking because my best friend is going to wake up in about…four hours and there is not a lick of food in this house. How are _you_, Arnold?" Phoebe asked calmly.

"Where is…What were…Why was I not informed of this?" I was fine with Phoebe coming over, seeing as the most I could cook was cereal. I wasn't a bad cook; I just never bothered to learn how do it so that other people could eat it. Not to mention the fact that this isn't my house and I have no say in who comes in or out of it.

"Trust me; I tried to wake you up. You sleep like a…"

"Log? Baby?" I asked. If I knew anything Phoebe was thinking of some animal that I'd never heard of, and probably never would. The least I could do was try, I guess.

"_Myotis lucifugus_…the brown bat." She replied, dumping the yellow fried eggs onto a plate already crowded with French toast, two pieces of bacon and one of those little green leaves that you're really not supposed to eat. She set the plate down in front of me with a simple command: "Eat."

I was about to protest when she explained herself. "Helga usually wakes sup around two or three in the afternoon, so I made her food and put it in the fridge."

I guess she noticed that I wasn't really eating so much as picking at my food, when she broke the conversation.

"Are you okay? I mean, after yesterday and everything?" She asked, forming a concerned line across her forehead.

"What do you mean? I didn't do anything…"

"What do mean you didn't do anything? I mean, that's really hard, not just to go through that, but to watch someone else go through it. "I guess she heard what she was saying and decided to rephrase it. "What I meant was…it's just that….her family and everything; they were really…frazzled after they went. The first time was really hard. You just seem really…calm compared to everybody else."

"Even you?" I've never seen Phoebe lose her composure. She was always an emotional person, but never outwardly.

"Even me. Not in front of her…I don't think anyone's broken down in front of her, sans Olga. But, yeah. It was really hard for me." Phoebe sat her chin on her upturned fists, covering most of her mouth, and I knew she was telling the truth. Everyone around me was revealing themselves, putting on their brave faces and took on the world with their own problems to handle.

"I was scared. From the moment she told me, I was scared. I'm still scared."

Phoebe looked up at me and, to my surprise, nodded. A strange sort of understanding, I think.

A second or so later, her cell phone went off. A light, airy, Waltz of the Flowers made her jump and then squirm to retrieve it from her pocket. She flipped it open and answered with a polite hello only to rush into a flurry of Japanese as soon as the person responded. I, again, stared at my plate, convinced that I wouldn't have been able to follow the conversation even if she had taught me more than "Hello", "Good Morning" and "Thank You" a year ago.

After closing the phone, and replacing it, Phoebe stood and brushed the front of her jeans off. "Well, I'm gonna go say bye to Helga, and then I have to leave. My dad, y'know?"

I'm not sure what exactly I said at that point. Or why exactly I stood up. But that short conversation with Phoebe made me come to grips with something that everyone else had seemed to have a long time ago.

While Phoebe said her goodbyes, I sat in the living room and pondered the last few months. Everyone who I'd spoken to had already warned against me blaming myself for not seeing it. Which would have been easy and not entirely beyond me. But I didn't. I know that it wasn't of my fault or anyone else's that I didn't notice it beforehand. Most of what I thought about was what had happened just over a week ago. Was I supposed to be the strong one? And if I was, did I act like it? In this situation, I wasn't entirely sure what being strong meant.

And I wasn't sure if I _could _be strong.

Phoebe descended the stairs about ten minutes later, and like the gentlemen that I am (I think) I walked her to the door. Before exiting, she turned and gave me that "comforting friend hug", complete with a grandmotherly pat on the back. The final touch was what she said upon our separation:

"Take care of her."

And that was something I had every intention of doing.

After Phoebe drove off, I climbed the stairs I hadn't been up in years. Of course, I'd been to Helga's house several times, but I rarely if ever went upstairs. I think her father bought the house because of the downstairs bathroom, knowing that one day, boys would come to visit his two daughters and may use "going to the bathroom" as a ploy to get the much closer to their bedroom. But for some reason, Helga's father never seemed to distrust me, save for our first encounter, where Helga had somehow gotten her parents to come to an art exhibit the school was holding. When they walked over to my booth (comprised mainly of photos) I debated whether or not to run, and after he shook my hand and gave me "The Look" that probably sent shivers down the spine of every male under the age of 23 who had ever saw Helga as anything more than a surrogate little sister, I knew that I _definitely _should have run. But after a while that seemed to melt away, and even though I was never given a formal invitation upstairs, I was welcome in their home.

Even though the door was cracked and she was apparently awake, I still knocked and waited for her to let me in. The weak response I got from the other side of the door I blamed on the vent directly over my head, but upon coming into the room, I found that her voice was considerable quieter than normal, something I can't say that I expected. She sat on her bed, under a thick comforter, and propped somewhat upright by two pillows. She smiled her smile as I entered, looking a little more weathered than yesterday.

"Hey you." I said, more the first thing that came to mind than the smartest thing to say.

"Hey." She replied, trying to prop herself up more, but eventually settling with the position she was in.

"Hungry? Phoebe made breakfast…"

She sighed heavily before answering. "Maybe later."

I sat myself in a chair that was next to her desk, and wheeled myself over to her bed. Her eyes became slits as she smiled as hard as she could, even though she was clearly exhausted.

"Tired?", I asked. Where was I getting these amazing questions?

Another long sigh. Were my questions annoying her? Tiring her out? I wasn't sure.'

"Tired of being tired." She said, as sincerely as possible. She looked towards the opposing wall contemplatively, and somewhat out of nowhere, grabbed my hand that was resting on the side of the bed. "I'm sorry…I'm not talking much. I'm just really, kind of tired…right now." She tried not to fragment her words, but found it difficult with the frequent breaths she found herself taking.

"Hey, it's nothing. You don't have to apologize for anything, okay?" I caught myself squeezing her hand for emphasis.

"Okay." she said, still turned away from me. I was scared she was crying, or she was about to start crying, neither of which I could do anything about. "Can you just sit with me for a minute?" She looked over at me then. Phoebe mentioned how alarming it was that I was so calm. And I was blown away at how reasonable she was being. She turned the corners of her lips upwards in an attempt to comfort me.

I just smiled back, and squeezed her tiny fingers a little harder.

* * *

Whoa. This was the hardest thing I've ever written in my life. Not just because I was changing POV"s and had to take on a different persona and everything, but when something as big as what was revealed in the last chapter is said, it's har to go anywhere from that. Don't expect a quick update. I've got mad senior work to do (cherish your high school career, because being a senior is not all Cap and Gown, skip third period, "sign my yearbook" crap...it's hard work!) My next update is…oh! Hurricane! Yay! I changed the name of Nothing Like a Song to Hurricane. It'll be explained in the chapter update.

Oh and just so everyone knows, I was nominated for Most Original Story in Jarel Kortan's Hey Arnold Fanfiction Awards 2005, but that might fall through because it was published in 2004. Oh well, it was an honor being nominated (especially alongside Skyhiatrist, who is in my opinion an amazing writer. So everyone should go vote. Not for me, unless you want to, but that's how I get interested in stories; checking out Favorites lists and Awards boards. Okay, I'm done! Peace!

-Antoinette a.k.a Pointy Objects


	6. I Can Fail Before I Ever Try

Chapter 6: _I Can Fail Before I Ever Try_

**March 8th**

"_I am fairly agile._

_I can bend and not break._

_Or I can break, and take it with a smile…_

_And I am so resilient. _

_I recover quickly._

_I'll convince you soon that I am fine."_

"_Bend and Not Break"_

_Dashboard Confessional_

It seems like whenever you need to get somewhere in a hurry, everything seems…hindered. Red lights stay red for too long, everyone drives slowly, and there will always be one too many obstacles in the way. And it doesn't always have to be that these obstacles, these road blocks, these speed bumps on the way to a goal, are challenging you the entire way to your goal. The worst of these always come as you're a few feet away from where you need to be. So close and yet so far away…don't I know it.

"Y'okay, buddy?" the older man next to me asked. At first, I was agitated by him. He wanted to talk. In an elevator. Of a hospital. Who on earth actually wants to carry on a conversation in an elevator? Elevators and Hospitals: the two most uncomfortable places known to man. Elevators because you can't get away. You're trapped. For what usually seems like forever. Then, hospitals. Need I explain? The only reason one could be in a hospital where the situation is positive, is a birth. And I am definitely not here for a birth.

"Uh, yeah, just…in a hurry." I said, quickly. The man didn't say anything until we got to his floor, and all he said was goodbye. Part of me was sorry to see him go, even though my incessant pressing of the CLOSE DOOR button was no indication of it. His presence kept me from talking to myself.

Floor 6. For the past two months, I didn't go up to this floor by myself, unless I was on a food run or a bathroom break. It's weird, going where I'm going and knowing that I'm going where I'm going without her with me.

The door (after several years) opens, I ignore the nurse, and start looking. I hate looking for hospital rooms. They do not arrange hospital rooms how homes on a street are arranged, you know, in numerical order. They are arranged by drawing numbers out of a hat. Literally. I'm looking for room 609. Six, Zero Nine. One would think that after the number 608, I would find 609. No, I find 611. Six, One, One.

I'll admit, I'm usually not so upset. I'm usually not this testy. I'm usually able to calm myself down fairly easily. I'm not today. And I kind of don't want to. I'd kind of like to stay just a little bit mad for a while. Because, right now, if I'm not mad, I'm killing myself with nervousness. I could not be more scared than I am right now.

Before I can continue talking to myself properly, I hear my name from the other end of the hallway. I knew right away, it was Phoebe. She was hanging out a door at the very end of the hallway, where one of the florescent lights was practically blown out. Of course they'd decide to hide my best friend in the darkest corner of the second highest floor of a hospital.

I didn't want to look like I was ignoring Phoebe, even though I was essentially there for Helga, I did give her a small hug, before going into the room. Who ever thought to put Room 609 across from 622?

My first look at the room Helga stayed in did nothing less than shock and perplex me. Everything, the bed, the sheets, the walls, the little revolving television, was white. It shouldn't have thrown me off too much, seeing as the hallways were just as white and bare, but it did. Maybe it was Helga's contrast against everything that threw me off.

Her hospital gown was light blue, but was hidden under a pink bath robe that I imagined to be softer than the sheets she was laying on. On her head she wore a pink and orange head scarf; her favorite, since she'd started wearing them regularly, to hide her thinning hair. For some reason, that she failed to explain, and I couldn't on my own, she refused to cut her hair. It was thin, like gossamer threading coming from her head. She kept it at her shoulder, and the chemo had made it almost white. Her face was paler than usual, which was to be expected.

"Hey." I said, quietly. Oh yes, I am the master of words. Go me.

"Hey there. Did you get my message?" she asked, scooting up the hospital cot a little. She was propped up on her elbows at this point. I wanted to tell her to stay as she was, but there was very little chance of her actually listening to me, so I kept my mouth shut.

"Yeah." I said. There were two chairs next to her bed and one closer to the bathroom, but I took a seat on the edge of the bed. Don't ask why.

Next to her bed was also a small table, which probably, at one time, held her breakfast. She reached over and took a glass from the table and emptied the orange juice inside. Before she could set it back on the table properly, she spoke again.

"Something the matter?"

She didn't see the look of surprise on my face, because she was still turned away. Is she serious? _I_ was tense? "What?" I asked, realizing how harsh it sounded after I'd said it.

"I said is something the matter. You seem tense." Helga said, twisting and untwisting the rope of her robe. The hospital obviously does not provide robes for its patients, and if they did, they probably would not be made of such soft fabric. I specifically remember her wearing it everyday after her chemotherapy, while she stayed home. Phoebe must have brought it for her before I came.

Needless to say, I was…completely confused. Of course, Helga was not one to reveal all of her emotions at once, if ever. If she was thinking something, especially if that something had to do with her and her own wellbeing, she'd shy away from it, or keep from talking about it altogether, one of the motives she probably had for hiding her illness for so long.

"Helga…I'm…I really have no idea what to say to you right now." I said. Geez, I still sound angry. I don't know how to let her know that I'm not angry, I'm confused. Helga's personality has always been one of the hardest for me to decipher. She could be feeling one way and have the polar opposite expression on her face.

"Ar-"

"Helga why are you like this? Why do you always have to put o a brave face. All the time? It's not…I don't know."

"What are you mad at me for? For not being emotional enough about this?! Is that it?" Helga retorted.

"God, Helga! Don't you get it? No one's mad at you...It's just that…It's like you don't understand it. You of all people." I said, laying his head in his hands. I'm pathetic. She thinks I'm mad at her. "Do you know why you're here, Helga. You have pneumonia. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes, Arnold, I do." Crap, now she's mad. "It means I get sick for a while, I get better, and I keep going with my life."

"Helga…that doesn't mean-"

"Doesn't mean what? I can't be strong enough to go through this and put on a brave face? What exactly are you getting at?" she asked.

What exactly was I getting at? I know I didn't like her acting like this; like everything was fine, when it wasn't. But what else should I have expected? I didn't want her to come off as helpless either. And, it wasn't even that I wanted her to act any certain way. How she chose to carry herself, even under pressure and the worst of odds, was one of the reasons why I admired her so much. I couldn't very well ask her to forsake all of that because she couldn't feel as sorry for herself as I did.

I have to kick myself for thinking so hard sometimes, that I don't pay enough attention to what my body is doing. They should be more synchronized than that. How exactly I moved myself all the way up the bed, until I was able to turn towards her and be a few inches from her, I don't know. For some reason, I couldn't turn and look her in the face. The threat of anger looming on her face kept me focused on the floor.

"Helga, I'm sorry. I'm not…I'm not good with words. It's just…you're so strong, about everything. And nothing ever looks like it…you just seem so unfazed by all of this. And nobody's saying you have to forsake any of that strength. It's just…you don't have to be so tough for all of us. We can't be there for you if you won't let us." I kind of felt like rolling my eyes at that last statement.

When I finally got up the nerves to look her in the face (which, mind you, was awhile…I'm really not so good with eye contact either) I couldn't tell if she was going to get up and run or yell at me. Considering the trouble she had just sitting up straight in her hospital bed, I figured it'd be the latter. She looked like a child and a grown woman all in one. She cradled her arms; each hand holding on to an elbow. She arched her neck so that one side of her face was almost completely hidden. Her face, however much she showed was as serious as I've ever seen it.

"I remember when I first started my chemo…and after I'd come home, I'd have all these pills to take. Like, literally…before I went to bed, when I woke up, when I ate…it was funny, me and my mom would sit together at breakfast, she'd take her vitamins and I'd take my pills." I wasn't sure where she was going about this, but Helga was a writer, a storyteller, and everything, _everything_, she said had a point. Everything she ever had to say was going _somewhere_.

"But then, I got sicker. And sicker." she started, turning towards me now. "And…I couldn't take my pills at breakfast anymore. I mean, I did…for a while. But, I'd look across the table at my mom, after I was done, and…Arnold, I can't describe the looks she'd have. It was like it hurt her to me that ill.

"And then one day, I told her, I said 'Mom, I'm fine. Don't worry about me.' And from then on, I just put on my brave face, and did what I had to do. I don't know, I just…I couldn't look at her after that. I couldn't joke about my medication, and I sure as hell couldn't take them in front of her. But trust me, I'm trying. Because, lately, my brave face hasn't been working well. I tried so hard to make everybody feel comfortable about m cancer. It got so far that once, I took my medication too late, and I ended up passing out coming from the bathroom."

She paused then. I remembered that incident. I was the Main Office Assistant, and I had to drop off some forms in the English Department.

* * *

"_Miss Cooper?! Miss Cooper?!!"_

'_Here we go again', I thought. Another freshman who's never seen a fight before…this was getting old. But, being the guy that I am, I felt the need to help. _

"_Miss Cooper's in room 203." I said, coming from around the corner. The kid almost ran into me he was running so fast._

"_Dude, I just need a person, man. There's like…come on!!" he said, talking too fast for my liking. 'I just need a person'? What was that supposed to mean? I decided to follow him anyway; Ms. Poole wasn't having me do anything important, and maybe he actually did discover something worth seeing._

_I wish he hadn't. I wish there was a fight. I wish he found a dead bird in the courtyard. I wish someone spray-painted the halls with obscenities. I wish I saw anything but what I did see._

_Something about seeing Helga lying on the cold linoleum, obviously having fallen down several steps from the blood that seeped from the now large bump on her head, made me stomach fall. _

_Part of me wanted to bound down the steps and make her wake up. Although I didn't necessarily "bound" down the steps, I told the kid who'd found her to get help from one of the nurses in that building. When the nurses finally did come, I was asked to go back to the office. I tried to let the stupid janitor and the stupid nurses and the stupid, snot-nosed freshman that this was my best friend and that I should at least be able to stay with her for a minute, but they thought it best to leave, I guess because I was so frazzled by everything. _

_The rest of the day, I tried to get in touch with Phoebe, but she was doing some work-study thing, and when I tried to see Helga at home, no cars were outside and no one answered the door. _

* * *

"Arnold…" she said, her voice snapping me out of my daydream. Her voice was somewhat hushed, and when I looked at her, I had the urge to turn back. I'm not sure what I expected to see when I looked at her, but what I did see was nothing short of heart-wrenching. Her fists were spread out over half of her face, covering her mouth and most of her nose, her eyes were shut, not tightly; in fact the only sign of strain on her pale face was her brow, as if she were holding back tears. This theory left me as soon as I looked at her eyes. Not really _at_ them; in them. There were remnants of tears on her face, in the small space between her eyes and nostril, where her fists provided area to see her face. She started talking again, her words growing more and more muffled and broken as she went on. I don't think she even knew what she was saying after a while. She began to lean forward, I noticed, her head and shoulders shaking.

She didn't return the embrace, not right then, at least. I don't think I expected her to right away. Even if she had made some indication that she wanted to, I think I was holding her too tightly for her to properly do so. I knew exactly what to do, but somehow, I found it hard to. It seemed like part of me wanted to stop her sobs; they were killing me. She cried like she was a fatally wounded baby; just hearing it made me want to cry. She shook her head against my chest, not so much in protest to the act that I was holding her as she bawled, but maybe, that she lost control for a moment. As she cried, I attempted to find the best way to comfort her. I rubbed her back, whispered that everything would be fine and that she was okay and that I wasn't mad; at one point, to quell her incessant head shaking, I held the back of her head, as gently as I could and turned her head opposite of mine. Her face stayed tense, and in what many would call a brief lapse of judgment, I craned my neck and kissed her face where I saw a tear. My thumb soon followed, wiping the eye of any remaining tears. She didn't seem to mind; she just looked up at me with the only free eye (seeing as the other was practically being impaled by my jacket), and wrapped one of her arms around my back.

About 2 hours later, Phoebe and Helga's parents appeared in the door of the hospital room. I felt the need to jump up and as far away from Helga as the room would allow, as if I were caught doing something I wasn't supposed to in front of her parents. The only thing that kept me from completely doing so was the fact that Helga was currently lounging, more or less, on my lap, having fallen asleep after watching Jeopardy. Wheel of Fortune had come on, and she became bored, falling asleep soon after the show started.

Phoebe just smiled and let me know that visiting hours were over (or rather, had been for awhile, apparently) and that she needed a ride home. I slid from under Helga, and she simply stirred a little in her sleep and rolled over. I felt anxious about walking past Helga's parents, like I was taking the walk of shame, or something. I smiled discreetly at both of them, before following Phoebe out of the room.

We were close to the elevators when I heard my name. Rounding the corner, I saw Helga's dad walking towards me. As I tried to think of an alibi (for what, I wasn't sure, I just had the feeling that I'd need one), he stopped a foot or two away from me. What was going on? Was he going to hit me? Am I really going to _die_ in a hospital?

Much to my surprise, he held out his hand and, without thinking, I took it.

"Thank you, Arnold. Really…Thanks a lot." He said, before turning around and walking back to Helga's hospital room.

I stood there for a minute, not sure which incident would bring about the heart attack that would most certainly kill me: that Big Bob Pataki just shook my hand and thanked me, or that Big Bob Pataki actually called me by _my_ name.

On the drive home, I contemplated my day. So far, I had arrived at my best friend's house, found out that in addition to her having pneumonia, she was in the hospital, I went to the hospital, proceeded to yell at aforementioned friend, make aforementioned friend cry, only before kissing said friend (on the eye no less), and watch a full two hours of Jeopardy, before driving home.

Here's to tomorrow.

* * *

**Wow. That's the first time I've ever cried while writing something. Chapter 4 didn't even make me cry when I was writing it. I feel stupid now. Not sure how to gauge this chapter; I'll leave that up to you guys. About two more chapters till I'm done. Again, sorry about he lateness, the full reasons as to why are at the beginning of Hurricane's most recent chapter. Later Days.**

**-PointyO**


	7. Where Soul Meets Body

**Chapter 7: Where Soul Meets Body**

"_And I do believe it's true_

_That there are roads left in both of our shoes_

_But if the silence takes you, _

_Then I hope it takes me too._

_So brown eyes, I'll hold you near,_

'_Cause you're the only song I want to hear_

_A melody,_

_Softly soaring through my atmosphere._

_Where soul meets body."_

_Death Cab for Cutie_

"_Where Soul Meets Body"_

**May 13th**

Sometimes, and only on rare occasions, it is perfectly acceptable to act like a small child. When the ice cream truck that has not graced your neighborhood in what feels like forever, makes its reappearance after several years, it is quite alright to grab whatever change you can carry and purchase one of those ice cream bars that will inevitably go to your hips, but disregard that because its more or less the most beautiful part of your day. Nor can fault be found in the joy that comes with the occasional call into work, claiming you've come down with whatever is going around this week, only to spend your morning with a bowl filled with all the cereal in your house (from the high-fiber, low-fat, low-cal bran you buy because you know you should, to the sugary rings of colors and flavors that lure many a children with their catchy slogans and cartoon characters, who do not deserve said cereal themselves), and perching yourself on the nearest piece of furniture that will swallow you whole to indulge in mindless cartoons for hours on end. Because on these occasions, where child-like behavior is permitted, it is the sad realization that there will be less and less time to partake in such activities as one ages.

And in saying, I like to take advantage of my age regression whenever possible. Like…right now.

It wasn't even hot outside. Well, the weatherman (who in my opinion, is too happy, too often) said it'd be 77 degrees at least with minimal cloud cover and some other meteorologist jargon that I pay little if any attention to. Either way, I could feel the cold glass of the window on my nose and the palms of my hands. I didn't want to press my face too hard on the window, because I was unsure that I could remove the marks of two sets of handprints and a upturned pig-nose from the glass.

"Is this where we're going?" I ask hurriedly. It's only a revised version of my earlier repeated question "Are we there yet?" (and it's cousin "Are we there now?") which grew to be annoying, not only to my trip-mate, but to myself, seeing as the answer was always the same. I couldn't hold back the squeal of delight when I was answered with a sigh and a "Yes." I had to hurry and slip on my flat tennis shoes (which perplexed me somewhat…I was certain I'd never used them for tennis, but it seemed all shoes with a rubber sole and no definable heel were deemed as such…weird) before we exited the car. I was a little confused by the lack of people here. One would think that on a perfectly sunny day, such an area would be swarming with people unpacking lunch coolers, children running around and scraping their knees, old people sleeping on lawn chairs that were consuming them whole, and the occasional half-naked girl, prancing about in all her Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition glory, making us all feel inadequate and fat. But there was no one. Not a soul. Weird? I believe so.

"Why isn't anyone here?" I ask my companion, who has been eerily silent for the past 23 minutes or so.

"It's a Wednesday." he replied as though that is the be-all end -all, or end-all be-all, or all-be-of-all-ended-end-be, or whatever it is my mother says when someone has the final say in something. She doesn't entirely makes sense all the time anyway, so who cares?

"Oh." I reply. Maybe (and I emphasize _maybe _because it would be all too ironic and scary if after uttering this statement I am struck by lightning), there is a little bit of The Garden of Eden everywhere. Granted, we're not in paradise, as I have yet to see a single fruit tree that I would give my life for, but it's the closest I'll probably get within the continent. Or the state at least. I forget what it was called when we drove up; North something-or-other campgrounds. The name isn't important. There's a little bit of everything here. There's a lot of grassy areas, for people (like me) who don't like sand. But here's still a lot of sand, making up the shores of a lake or something. I was never good with bodies of water. An ocean is bigger than a lake, that's bigger that a pond, but smaller that a marsh? Or is that a bog? And is a marsh the same thing as a swamp? Why am I thinking about this? I skipped school so I could _not _think for a day.

Skipped is not the appropriate word, and I humbly apologize to anyone who has properly skipped school. Skipping school requires one to either leave the school day early or not go at all with no parental, administrative or governmental consent. My parents didn't have too much of a problem with me…"disregarding" my in-school responsibilities to whisk out to the country for a day. They understand that I'm graduating in…soon, and that whatever the teachers have to tell me, they should have done so sometime within the past four years.

I can't say I was thrilled when my parents went along with this scheme, that turned out not to be a scheme at all. You'd think that any self-respecting father (especially _my _self-respecting father) would be in utter outrage the his daughter would actually consider skipping school to gallivant (where do parents get words like that anyway? Gallivant? I mean honestly, it's like they've got a dictionary of their own or something…) off into the countryside with some boy! Alone, no less! But no, not my dad. My dad _trusts _me. His daughter doesn't do things like that, with…boys like that. Has he forgotten what a little hellion I used to be? Does he think it just disappeared into magical happy fairy sunshine dust? No siree, Bob (no pun intended). I can be crazy. For all he knows I might come back home with a piercing that I can't show to polite company. Take that, dad.

That almost sounded believable. Almost.

In my inward rants on bodies of water, school, my parents immense trust in me, and how exactly I'd look with a bright pink eyebrow piercing, I didn't hear a single thing Arnold said. That sounds like I'm exaggerating, but I honestly did not know he was even talking at all.

"Did you hear me?" he asked, for what may have been the third time. As I said, I was not listening in the least.

"No. Not even a little. No. Not at all. Sorry." I replied. Suddenly the zipper on my red hoodie became very interesting.

"I asked, where would you like to sit?" he said. Yay. He's not mad. Like I expected that. Actually I did. Even the most patient of people get upset by me. What can I say? I have the tendency to get under people's skin without really knowing it. Call it a talent.

"Umm…somewhere sunny. And grassy." Hahaha. So deliciously vague am I. Sunny? Grassy? Sounds like 75 of the earth, genius. Wait, 75 of the earth is water. Okay, how about 75 of the 25 of the earth that isn't water. So that would be….25 divided by…Shut up Brain, shut up. We're skipping school, remember?

Unknowingly, Arnold has left to find someplace "sunny" and "grassy". Running to catch up to him, I notice that he has stopped. The worst case scenario suddenly pops in my head. There's a dead body just beyond where he's standing and the police will think we did it, and we'll be on the lam. I'll have to ditch the red hoodie, because it'll be too conspicuous and easy to identify. But when our food supply runs out we'll have to stay in a dingy old motel and we'll be picked out by the motel owner, and then we'll have to kill him too. It'd be a killing spree that'd never end until we make our way to Canada, where I'll have to work in a bacon factory and Arnold will have to work in a maple syrup factory and the only incentives to the job is that you get free bacon and syrup, and everyone knows that you can't eat bacon and syrup everyday and not draw attention to yourself, which will lead to more running and hiding, and maybe more killing until we can hitch a ride to Iceland.

When I finally do catch up t o him, I'm out of breath and tired. "Where's the body?" I ask, in one quick hurried breath. He looks at me the way my mother used to when I asked if the carrots could feel it when I ate them and if their families missed them. Almost like he wished there was a straitjacket in that cooler he was holding.

"Are you sure you're okay? You're not making any sense at all."

I looked past him to where he was looking. No body. Oh well. No Canada this time. What he did find was nearly as breathtaking as a dead body, but far less nauseating. Ahead of us was a hill with one tree on it. It was practically something out of a painting: a perfectly green hill with a lush green and pink dogwood on it.

"That'll work." we said in unison, before making our way to the top of the hill.

"I can't believe it. I've been training for three weeks, and I can't even beat you up a stupid hill." Arnold said, collapsing next to my feet.

"You can take the girl off of the track team, but you can't take the…track team off of...the…hmmm."

"Sounded a lot better in your head, didn't it?" He said, still gasping for air. Lightweight. Coach Summers would rip him apart.

"Yes." I said, in slight defeat. My attire was less than glamorous; so much so that Fergie herself would be disappointed. What's her deal anyway? She's always gallivanting (there's that word again…) around, spelling things. Was she a spelling bee champ as a child? Well, my dear FergaliciousDefinition, those days are over, and I recommend you move on. We are all very capable of spelling "delicious" with your name in front of it. Anyway, I decided (without much thought as to where I was going, seeing as I didn't know where I was going) to go with a faded red hoodie, and funny-looking cut-off sweat pants. The kind that end just under the knee. Add to my list of fashion victim offences, slip on tennis shoes. Looking at my calves, as I have for most of the day, I realize, yet again, that I am paler than sin. I am literally the palest thing in the world. If I were a superhero, I would have the amazing ability to blind people with my legs of incredible paleness. Thank Heaven it's sunny; I may be able to soak up some color. Kicking off my shoes, I lay back on the grass, before realizing that Arnold has set up camp under the tree.

"Oh, you wanted to sit in the sun?" he asked.

From upside down (had I been sitting upright he'd have been behind be, but seeing as I was laying down, I could very well look up, or down in any case and see him perfectly. And upside down, of course.) 'Well, kinda.' I wanted to say. I did describe my ideal spot as "sunny" and "grassy" not "under a tree" and "grassy". Not to mention, I was still cold, despite the temperature.

"Sort of." I started. "But, we can sit under the tree, I mean, it's no big deal." My body was instantly mad at me, sending a bad case of the shivers right up by back. Even I couldn't stop the spastic twitch that suddenly threw my upper body to the left. '_You idiot!' _it screamed. '_We're freezing and you go and agree to sit under the tree!'_

"Did you take your iron supplement before we left?" Oh fanbloodytastic, just jump onto the Prescription Train with everybody else. Three things I was not going to think about today: School (That was successful…), Fergie as a solo recording artist (That was inevitable, she's everywhere) and medication.

"Yes, I did." said. Whoops. Too much edge on that one. Maybe I should apolo-

"It's cool. Here, this side of the tree is exposed and sunny, and we can sit there, okay? Best of both worlds." he said. I'm glad we have different temperaments. I couldn't handle someone as irrational as myself. Why do you want to be in the sun so badly anyway?"

"I was hoping to get a tan today." I replied as superficially as I knew how, hair-flip and all. It may not have been my hair, but I can flip it as much as I like, thank you.

"Isn't that what tanning beds are for?" Arnold asked, laughing as he moved the food and blanket to the other side of the tree.

"Tanning bed? No way? You want me to get cancer or something?" I said, clearly without thinking. I was alright joking about it, but evidently, he wasn't alright with me being alright joking about it. I was going to have to pay for that one. "Sorry, I wasn't-"

"It's fine." he said, cutting me off. I was partially convinced that it wasn't just my bad version of a joke that set Arnold in a foul mood. Something bigger than this was going to happen. Something bigger than the both of us.

"How old is the Packard?" I asked, focusing my gaze on the pale green car parked below us. It was still lonely on the faded black asphalt of the parking lot.

"My grandpa says he's had it since 1937, but he's often wrong." Arnold replied casually. I could tell he was smiling, though I could not see his face. We were both finished eating (I finished first of course) and lying on the grass, staring at the sky. So much for no cloud cover. We winced in unison whenever there was a flash of sunlight over us between the drifting clouds.

"Are you going to take it with you to college?" I asked. That's more what I was trying to get to.

"That has yet to be decided." Uh, darn these calm, cool, collected answers. Who did he think he was, me?

"The Packard or college?"

There was a pause before he answered. A long pause. A long pause that made me nervous that he'd either fallen asleep or was actually considering not going to college. "Both."

I sat up now. In my sudden change of position, my head band/headscarf nearly fell off, but I steadied it. "Why wouldn't you go to college?"

"I never said I wasn't going-"

"But you implied it."

"Well, why should I?"

"I'm not going to speak to you if you're going to be so…ridiculous." I retorted, resuming my sleeping position on the soft ground. "Wake me in an hour." I added, laying on my side and crossing my arms, which, conveys the look of genuine anger to people, but it rather uncomfortable. Eventually, I fell asleep, although I can't remember. What I do remember is waking up. Isn't that strange? You can remember waking up, but you very rarely remember the last few minutes before you fell asleep. Life's weird like that, I think.

What I woke up to, was not the south side of the hill that I fell asleep on. Instead, I woke up to Arnold, sitting up, kind of like that statue…The Thinker, or something. Except he was sitting on the grass. Wearing blue jeans and that old green hoodie. And, most obviously, he was alive. I'm still feeling funny from this morning which will inevitably lead me to say something I either don't want to, or that I don't mean at all.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I'm still mad at you." I replied without thinking. My head felt dull, and cloudy, like I was still asleep. Hopefully, I was able to hide it long enough for him not to notice. But then again, I was never very good at keeping things out of Arnold's range of attention.

"No, you're not. You're just feeling loopy because you took all your meds at once this morning." He said, smiling that stupid smile that it's so stupid I can barely comprehend the stupidity of it. Stupid stupidness.

"I did no such thing…" I started, picking at the grass for a minute. Stupid grass. "How'd you know? How do you ever know?" Yup, I'm definitely feeling loopy. Very few, if any, people are aware that too many meds (or too many of _my _meds, more specifically) can lead to two things: a crash, and episodes of thoughtless irrationality. And judging by the impromptu nap I just took, I think I've thoroughly covered that portion of my day.

Arnold lay down on the grass next to me. Oh fantastic. Hopefully I've got that funny taste on my tongue that you get when you eat and then fall asleep back to back. "Because…" he started. "When I pulled up, I saw you pop a handful of 'something' into your mouth, and I highly doubt that your mom makes bite-sized Eggs Benedict."

I grumbled and stood, wavering only slightly. I was obviously more angry at myself than at him, but distancing myself still felt like a good idea. The tree we were sitting under earlier was only a few feet away, but it fulfilled its purpose. The bark was rough enough that I could feel it through my jacket. It wasn't getting any warmer outside, and something about the sudden cloudiness made me think rain was in the near future.

"What's wrong now?" he asked coming over. As if he weren't going to come over. I was a tad loopy, but I wasn't deluded. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but after a moment, I was abruptly leaned forward, and Arnold was separating me from the tree. It wasn't until he spoke again that I realized where I was. For some reason, my eyes turned to narrow slits as realization dawned on me in regards to our current sitting position.

Why did this…person have this effect on me? I am fully capable of sitting like this with a person of the opposite gender and not get all…funny. In truth, I really did. I could hang with any guy on God's green earth and hold my own. Because I'm Helga. Helga Pataki. Before I'm a high school student, or a cancer patient or a descendant of a family of East-European hotheads, I'm Helga Pataki. And because I am Helga Pataki, I've spent a great deal of my life building walls. I built a few to make sure my parents never realized how I really saw my childhood; how hurt and discouraged and upset I was or why. Then, came school. I built another set to make sure people left me alone. My business was my business and not just anybody was going to be able to get in. And since then, a little wall would come up if anything happened at all. Even for the people I trusted, I felt the need to erect walls. Call it instinct. A small one for Phoebe, letting her get closer than most, but not too close, and of course, a number for Arnold. For the sheer fact that he was able to breach any security system I had instituted without any brute force. He needed to be shut out more than anyone.

What frustrated me more than most anything I could think of in this state was that I had failed. I'd failed to keep my walls up. And this fact only really bothered me when I thought about it too much. My line of security was rapidly being infiltrated, and there was nothing I could do about it, for the sheer fact that there was nothing I _wanted _to do about it. The reflection on the night I told my parents how I felt about them for the first half of my life was not something I looked back on with embarrassment or regret. Nor the night that I told Phoebe or Arnold. Could I honestly be angry at them for caring too much? For wanting to help, knowing that it was for my benefit; that these walls weren't protecting anyone, least of all me? No. I couldn't. But you better believe I could pretend.

"I'm alright. This thing is just…itchy." I said, open palm smacking my head in a few places. Gerald called it "Patting Your Weave" or something to that context. I've never had a weave, but if they were half as annoying as the torture device on my head, I was happy I hadn't. After I'd appropriately smacked my I.Q. down a few points, I decided that there was no way to avoid it, and leaned back on Arnold's chest. Instead of the concave mass of skin and bone that I assumed Arnold's chest and upper body was, I was (pleasantly?) surprised to find that it was…not. It was much like walking down stairs in the dark and finding that there is one step more than you perceived. Only, most certainly, more welcomed. I found myself wondering what his bare chest looked like, before involuntarily smacking myself in the forehead again.

From behind me, Arnold asked, "Are you alright? Is your…head still bothering you?"

He was too polite. I nodded. My _head_. Not my hair, not my hairpiece, not my wig. My head. It was obvious to him that I was wearing hair that I was not born with. The wig wasn't very long, barely shoulder length, and pulled into low pigtails on either side of my head underneath my ears. It curled at the ends, like real hair, and was easy to clean. The only problems I had with it: it was very blonde and very shiny. My hair was blonde, of course, I'd attempted to keep it that way, without dying it. A losing battle, I realized; even before my chemotherapy, my hair was darkening to a dirty-blonde, something Olga's had not. Second, it was very synthetic. My hair was thick and somewhat brittle, more stiff, and a little bit wavy at the roots. This hair was bone-straight and laid out in thin, unrealistic layers. In a nutshell, it was wasn't mine.

"Well, what can I do to make you feel better…?" Apparently, I was being spoken to again. I should work on not getting so lost in my head so often.

"Go away." Well, that came out nicely. "Go away to college and don't regret it." Much better, Helga. I peered over my shoulder, but I couldn't see what he was gazing at. Whatever he was looking at, was making him think.

"Helga, my reasons-"

"Screw your reasons, Arnold! Whatever your reasons are aren't good enough. You have no reason to stay here. What's here, Arnold? What's in Hillwood that's not out there?" I asked, losing rationality again.

"What if something happens here? What if I miss something right here?!" he asked, stabbing the ground with his index finger.

"Like what? Your grandparents are in the best shape I've ever seen anyone their age. And I'm sure they want to you to go, too. And if you ask me, a Boarding House is no place to live forever, so if someone were to move away, it'd probably be for the best, and frankly-" I went on. It wasn't the loopiness anymore, I'm just weird.

"And what about you?" He asked, closer to my ear this time. Hopefully his peripheral vision isn't good enough to see my blush from here.

"What about me?" I asked, quietly. Fantastic job at _not _making your voice crack Helga. Peter Brady held a note better than you uttered that last sentence.

"What if something happens, and I'm not here?" he asked, as if that were the only thing it took to sway me. Gale force winds (whatever they were) didn't sway me. Of course, I wouldn't know a gale force wind if it knocked me over. Which it wouldn't. Because I can't be swayed. So there.

"What if anything happens to anyone at anytime for any reason at all? Are you going t drop everything in your life for them?"

"Yes. That's what you do for people you care about." Care about? Oh geez, he's turning his head now. Abort blush! I repeat, abort blush!

"Well," I started, after the shiver in my stomach subsided. "Part of caring about people is respecting their wishes and…going away to college." He looked at me hard for a minute, either hoping that I'd crack or look away. No such luck. "Will you at least consider it? At least apply, and then make a decision, okay?" I asked. He smiled at this. Bingo, baby.

"I've actually already applied." he confessed. My face probably read what I was thinking. "I haven't heard back. I wasn't sure…I wasn't sure if I would actually go. Even if I were accepted."

"Whatever you decide, when you do get accepted, make sure to let me know, alright?"

"_When _I get accepted? Look at our little optimist…" he replied, tightening his grip on my sides. I let out an inaudible sound, that I could hardly classify myself, at his accidental discovery of, what I shudder to admit, my "spot".

Yes, it is true. Every female (and quite a few males) on the face of the planet has a "spot"; a place on her body, that is completely unrelated to sex or sexual organs, that when engaged, will turn her into Jell-O. Or pudding. Or Jell-O brand pudding. Which ever you prefer. Either way, I was the equivalent to high sugar, Cosby-endorsed dessert snack at the moment.

"Hey, don't get used to it. As soon as this stuff wears off, I'll be back to normal, and doubting everything again." I chimed, beaming. With the combination of his breath on my neck, his hands on my waist, the flying saucers in my stomach and the insatiable need for my blood to rush to my face and make me look like a tomato, I figured I could either run screaming into an open field, or shut up and let it happen.

What happened next…I can barely believe it happened at all. Mostly because A) It happened, like…in just half of a millisecond, B) I've ran this scenario through my head quite a few times and it never panned out like this and C)…it was just very, very fast. If I weren't there, I probably wouldn't have believed it happened at all. It was that fast.

Not long after the conversation died down, I was getting used to the eruption of emotions that were going off and throwing my brain into a mass of confusing and frightening realizations. Arnold was still leaning forward; quite possibly attempting to mold his upper body to the arch of my back. Whatever the reasoning behind it, I was surprised to find that there was something on my ear. Lips. There were lips on my ear. His lips. Arnold's. Arnold's lips were on my ear.

I was somewhat (psht…yeah right, I was floored) unsure how to react. Did he even know where his mouth was? Did he fall asleep back there? In a brief lapse of judgment, I turned quickly towards where the ear/lip contact happened. In so doing, I presented my brain with both good and bad news.

The good news was that I eradicated the feeling in my stomach that accompanied the previous meeting of my ear and his mouth. The bad news was that I didn't eliminate said feeling long enough for me to enjoy it. Because I decided to move so quickly, I found myself in an all new dilemma. I was now face to face with my biggest fear. And did I mention? His lips were no longer on my ear.

They were on mine.

It definitely was not an earth-shattering kiss. It was in no way a "Last Dance of Prom on The Season Finale of Teen Angst Drama Blankity Blank Blank". In theory, it was barely a kiss at all. You could barely say our lips were even touching. Well, they were, definitely touching but…the short and short of it is that we were not kissing. It was not a kiss.

Except for the fact that neither of us really did anything to stop it once it happened. We both sat very still, and very silent. I could hear the sound of a distant wind and I could feel his breath on the patch of skin between my nose and top lip. It was difficult to differentiate whose nervous tremble I was feeling on my lips: his or mine. At some point, we were simultaneously compelled to do something. Apparently, it was…to move forward, strangely enough. I know that I was obviously having a brain dead moment, but I'm not sure of his excuse.

And then, in the midst of this…whatever all of this was, I hear a sound that resembled a wooden baseball bat being broken in half. Arnold and I both jumped, turning towards the sky, where the offending sound was produced. The sky had grown darker since the last time I looked at it. Granted, I was looking at it not a few moments ago, but I failed to notice how rapidly the daylight faded into a darkened sky. It barely looked like it was three in the afternoon, but closer to the early evening.

"We should leave." Arnold said, seriously. To be precise, a bit more serious than I expected. Is it just me, or were we about to…something?

"Why?" I asked, hastily. I hadn't really meant to ask, but his abrupt change had my head swirling.

"Well, we are under a tree, on a hill, made primarily of sand, and it's raining. Just about all of these factors don't do well in regards to lightning." Oh. I didn't put all of that together, and frankly, I wasn't aware that it was raining at all. As soon as we stood and emerged from under the canopy of leaves that hid us partially from the weather, I realized it was raining. In fact it was pouring; I could barely see the Packard from the top of the hill. Yanking the drawstrings of my hoodie, and peering back at Arnold, I awaited his signal before advancing down the hill. We were both completely soaked by the time we were inside the Packard.

"Are you sure you're okay? You look cold."

"Yes. If you ask me again, I will stab you."

"With what? Your teacup?"

I attempted to stare daggers at Arnold, but it was none too easy in my current situation. I sat directly across from him on my father's recliner, and he on our faded couch across the living room. The only light came from the two open windows on my side of the room and a few lit candles. Arnold sat next to the old camping lantern my dad used a total of four times in a failed attempt to get me to enjoy camping. It was the kind that burned off of funny smelling oil and was mostly made of glass. It fulfilled its purpose and shed a dramatic cast shadow over the far end of the room where we hadn't lit any candles.

Upon arriving home, I found two things: a note from my parents. It was longer than most and basically read that they had errands to run and were going over to their Senior Financial Analyst's home for dinner and wine. Attached was a twenty-dollar bill in case I wanted to order pizza and a list of leftovers that Olga had dropped off for me. Next I found a blown fuse box and no electricity. Actually, I didn't find that as soon as I entered the house. Arnold and I had barely had enough time to get inside before the electricity went out. Seeing as I know nothing about fuses and Arnold (coincidentally) knew even less, I invited him to stay until the our clothes dried and the electricity returned. Little did I know that neither would be accomplished within the hour. Or the next. Or the one after that.

My parents had, in the most literal way I can explain, locked away all of the coffee in my house. There were those annoying, impossible-to-remove little plastic pulley things on one of the cabinets under our sink, keeping me from a cup of Folgers. Thank you, mom and dad. Because of this, my alternative was a box of green tea bags that Phoebe gave me for when I wasn't feeling well. The tea was barely hot; I'd forgotten that faucet water, microwaves and stoves are all electrically powered. Arnold's ingenious idea was to take a teacup, fill it with bottled water (something we were surprisingly not lacking), and balance it over the oil-burning lantern. It worked, and in combination with Olga's leftovers (which consisted of foods that were meant to be eaten cold), I was thankful for at least that much.

The candles near the recliner flickered from a soft breeze coming in through the window to my right that was slightly ajar. The wind crept into the room and over my face, reminding me of the conversation in the Packard on the way home.

"_So what inspired today?" I asked. The car ride was quieter than I liked, and even though I was coming down from my high faster than I thought, I was still bored. Not too mention I needed some kind of conversation starter for my next question. "I mean, the campground, the picnic, why'd you do it?"_

"_I'm not sure. I just thought we should get away. Do something fun before graduation." Arnold replied, glancing over at me,, something he hadn't done much of on the ride over. _

"_Thanks, Arnold. I had a nice time today." I replied, sliding down further in the seat. _

"_Well then, mission accomplished." he beamed. _

_A few moments later I attempted to shift my wig over a little. The rain sank through the wig and onto my scalp, making it itch as it dried. "Umm, Arnold?" I asked, scrunching my face, and trying desperately to scratch my scalp through the layers of synthetic hair. _

"_Yeah?" he asked, focusing on the road._

"_Would you mind if I…if it makes you uncomfortable, that's fine, but…I'd put it right away, it's just-" I stopped. Beating around the wig would get me nowhere. That wasn't a play on words, either. I was still trying Gerald's weave-patting technique, and it really was getting me nowhere. "Would you be okay if I took my wig off?" I asked, breaking the question up in a few places._

_Arnold stayed silent for a few moments. The rain outside was deafening, but his quietness as disturbing me. He looked like a cross between being deep in thought, and telling an inside joke to himself. Needless to say, I was confused, and somewhat worried that I'd ruined a seemingly perfect day. _

"_You…I mean, do you…" Arnold stammered. _

"_If you're not comfortable with it, it's fine." I interrupted. "I mean, Phoebe doesn't like how it smells, and Olga doesn't like looking at it when it's not on my head. She doesn't mind touching it, I guess, because she likes to comb it and brush it and all that." have no idea why I thought any of that was supposed to make him feel any better about being uneasy about seeing me without my wig._

"_Helga, it's not that. At all. It's just…I didn't think you trusted me that much. I know how…guarded you are sometimes. And I know you don't trust people that easily. And especially after you told me you had cancer, I felt like…I felt like I forced you to tell me. That you didn't want to in the first place, and hat everything after that, me going to chemo with you, was just because I already knew your secret."_

"_So, you're saying that-"_

"_I am saying that," he started. "I am saying that your trust, if nothing else is an honor." he said. His voice held not so much as a crack, and yet, his words were unmistakably sincere and honest. _

_I often asked myself why I liked Arnold. Why I bothered with someone so ambitious and determined and eager when I could surround myself with people who were meek, modest, and although caring, generally uninterested, seeing my reluctance to reveal myself as nothing more than a personality flaw. _

"_How could I not trust you?" I asked out loud, but to no one in particular. "You have done everything I've ever asked you, without me ever having to ask at all." I finished. Taking a hold of the rim of my hood, I pulled it down to reveal the whole of my wig. The top was undoubtedly disheveled; I'd been wearing the hoodie all day, and the only exposed hair was the low pigtails. Without meeting his gaze, I peeled the front part of the wig, along with the wig cap, and slid it down the back of my neck. Before I knew it, there sat my wig, in my lap, still tied back in its low little ponytails. _

_Arnold's eyes didn't meet mine until I'd been looking at him for a while. It wasn't any sort of confirmation that I wasn't grotesque. Olga had done plenty of that the day she cut it. Usually, the last thing I'd ever want is Olga within two feet of me with any device. That could possibly damage me. But she was, more or less, the only person I knew who had actually cut hair in a decent fashion (practicing her "skills" on Dave, who never seemed to complain) and didn't mind doing so late at night. I called her around 11:43 PM, asking her to cut my hair. Cut, not shave. Something about losing all of my hair at once made me nervous. I didn't have much hair, really, but I wanted to preserve what I could. And when she was finished, when my thin dirty blonde strands littered my shoulders, lap and the floor around the bathroom toilet, we stood in front of the mirror, besmirched with droplets of toothpaste, face wash, and water stains, and cried until we laughed. Our parents found us and hour or so later, collapsed on the floor, holding one another and laughing uncontrollably. I think there was some kind of moment of understanding between Olga and I that night. She tried desperately for years to get close to me, and after a while, I think she gave up, not because she no longer wanted a relationship with me, but because she just couldn't anymore. Me calling her that night to do something I never would have had done by any other person alive may have been what gave her hope to try again. And it gave me the hope that this time, it might work out._

_My hair was cut, in a nutshell, like a boy's. It was pretty dark by now, and cut close in the back, and an inch or so longer in the front. The hair as softer than before, and thinner, but it still moved like boy's hair. It didn't bother me as much as I thought it would; I'd advanced to the point of going out to the mailbox without my wig or a hat on. Granted, I'd be outside for a grand total of 2 minutes, but it was nearly 121 seconds longer than if you had asked me to do so a year ago._

_I ran my hand up and down my head, the way I'd seen countless guys do, Arnold included. Laughing nervously, I was about to say something, Arnold reached over and grabbed my left hand, which had been sitting on my lap over my wig._

"_Are your clothes still soaked?" he asked quietly. I don't remember my reply, I don't remember getting out of the car, rushing to the house or unlocking the door. I do remember, however, having a sudden wave of embarrassment come over me upon realizing the situation. I was alone, in my house, with Arnold. Anyone else would have thought of this as a matter of coincidence, but I knew better._

_Actually, I didn't, but it's pretty unbelievable nonetheless._

"_I'm gonna go get some towels and blankets and…stuff." I stammered before heading up stairs. The friction of my sweat pants and hoodie against my wet skin was unbearable, but standing by my front door staring at Arnold was no better. A few minutes later, I came downstairs, having peeled off the sopping hoodie and hurling it into the dryer, looking obviously dejected._

"_Something wrong?" Arnold asked._

"_There aren't any blankets in the house. They're all outside, on the clothesline." There was nothing more I wanted than a cup of coffee, my favorite comforter, and an evening on my couch watching TV. _

"_Well, we can just-"_

_With that, the kitchen lights, porch lamp and mysterious humming that comes from the downstairs closet that my family never seems to use suddenly shutdown at once, and the house was very nearly completely dark. Looking around the room and then back at Arnold, I had to ask. _

"_You were saying?"_

Resting my now empty cup on the floor, I swung my leg over the side of the recliner and propped myself up. Probably noticing my movement, Arnold sat up a little more.

"Where are you going?" he asked, as I approached.

"If you don't mind a stab at your masculinity, I figured we could share." I replied, draping the blanket over him, and then crawling under, once he was covered. The blanket was covered with faded purple, pink and yellow flowers and hearts. It was a hand-me-down straight from Olga; one that I didn't mind keeping as it was in good condition and…well, sometimes I like pink and purple and flowers. Sue me.

"I never thought you to be one to sleep with such a-"

"Hey, if you're gonna dog it…" I began, slowly moving away from him and taking to cover with me. Before I was fully aware of I, Arnold had snaked his arm around my waist, pulling be (and the blanket) back to our previous position, only much closer.

"Let's not be hasty, now…" he urged, laughing. Needless to say, I was rather disappointed by his following actions. In a split second my forehead was recovering from an impromptu and frankly, disorganized kiss. Yes, that's right. My forehead. Despite this being my second "kiss" of the day (and I use that term loosely), I must admit, I was none too pleased.

"Arnold…?"

"Yeah?"

"When you pitch, what are you thinking about? I mean, what's running through your head right as you're letting go of the ball?" I asked.

He looked confused at first, which wasn't unexpected. The question came out for nowhere, for him at least. Either way, he answered, even if after a few seconds of contemplation. "Um, I kind of imagine the ball in the catcher's mitt. Like in slow motion or something. It's a little weird, I guess."

"So you pretty much aim the ball for the catcher's mitt? Is that what you're saying?" I asked, now incredibly interested.

"I guess you could say that. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular. I was just surprised, is all." I replied non-chalantly. He was falling right into my…well whatever it was, he falling right into it.

"Surprised? Why would that surprise you?" he asked, curiously. Oh it was almost too easy.

"It's just that your aim and everything, it's really…bad."

"What?"

"Your aim is kind of…off, is all I'm saying. It's not awful, Arnold, it's just…" I finished, trailing off intentionally. I'm so good, I scare myself sometimes.

"What…I…you haven't been to one of my games in weeks, how would you know about my aim?!" Arnold asked, frantic. A bruised ego was a small obstacle in letting him see the error of his ways.

The living room was practically pitch black by now, but I could still make out the outline of Arnold's features. Our close proximity prevented him from looking me dead in the eye, and as a result I could nearly make out his strong brow, cheek and jaw line. "Well, let's think on it. Just over a month ago, you kiss my eye. And then, this afternoon, I get one on my…whatever this thingie is-" I said, motioning to the space between my nose and top lip.

"It's called a philtrum." Arnold interrupted.

"Yeah, philtrum, whatever. And then just now, I get nice, big one on my forehead. So just basing my conclusion off of this evidence, I'm thinking that maybe your aim could use some help."

Arnold looked to be in thought for a moment. At least he wasn't offended, which was a distinct possibility, but still unlikely. "Well, this is a bit of a shock. What do you suggest I do to remedy this?" he asked, mockingly.

"Well, there's plenty of techniques, and-"

Okay, so maybe I wasn't expecting _this_. In reality, I'm not sure what I was expecting. But that's how life works, I think. I was never expecting to, within the year, anyway, get a 3.7 average GPA in all my classes senior year, get cancer, tell anyone that I got cancer, catch pneumonia, get rained out during a picnic, lose electricity in the middle of May, and end up kissing Arnold in my living room.

…

I'm kissing Arnold in my living room. In the dark. Without proper parental supervision.

I told my dad not to trust me.

I decided (once I fully realized who, where and in what manner I was kissing Arnold, and in turn being kissed by Arnold) to keep my eyes completely closed. Mainly because I wasn't sure what there was to look at if I did open my eyes, and it seemed a bit disrespectful to have your eyes open during a kiss. It was similar to sniffing a meal someone made for you before you eat it. Besides that, opening your eyes kind of takes away from the effect.

About a minute after we parted, I started thinking again. Something about eh way he stared at me eased my nerves. Something about the way his left middle finger sat in the nape of my neck made me feel safe. And something about the way the electricity jolted back to life revealing two pairs of very swollen lips made me think this was far from over.

That chapter, was very satisfying. It wasn't at first, let me tell you. I was extremely unhappy with it when I started. I wasn't sure how to properly convey why Helga was being so…strange, but once I did, I was able to make everything else fall into place. I'm not sure if the situation Helga was in is the "norm" with cancer patients; I'm getting all my info from one source, so it could be uncommon as far as I know.

I tried to maintain a "progression" in this chapter that a lot of others seemed to be lacking. In the beginning (God created the Heavens and the Earth...I'm kidding. That's the first thing that pops in my head when I hear "In the beginning"…and if you're unsure about where that's from, check page one of Bible. First…10 words of Genesis. Yeah, baby.) the mood was very silly, a little jumpy from one thing to another, then towards the middle, got more serious and by the end, I wanted it to be lighthearted, but not silly. I think I did okay with that.

BTW, the end? Yeah, check the end of chapter four. I keep self-alluding myself (I know the first self was redundant, but I like how it sounds). Anyway, I really liked that line when it was originally posted and I thought I'd recycle it. I was always a fan of Captain Planet, and I think he'd be proud,

As I've said before, I hate (with a bloody, red, fiery, hot passion) writing kissing scenes. I hate them. I love reading them, or watching movie wherein they are featured. But, I hate writing them. I don't understand them, at all. It's not an activity I take part in very often. Or ever. Anyway, I spend most of my day avoiding other people's…oral cavities, so, although they can make or break a story, and are genuinely the most romantic expressions in the universe, I do not enjoy writing them. They are very hard to write. So if there's a long lull in a chapter or I don't post a chapter for a long time, it's usually because there's a kiss in that chapter, and…I'm readying myself.

What else, what else? I wanted to get Helga's perspective in this chapter, because I haven't decided who's POV the next chapter will be in. I might flip flop between the two of them. And if you thought chapters 4 and 6 were heart wrenching, wait until chapter 8. It'll kill you. Not really. But you might cry. A little. Probably not. The last chapter may just be in third person. I'm still deciding.

And to my anonymous reviewer, I just have to thank you. You have no idea how much your review meant to me. I've never been through any of the things I write about, and the only thing I hope to take away is that it stays as true to reality as possible. Because it's so easy to write something, and not really care about the people who really were going through something similar to this and how they felt. So, I'm just glad that I'm doing this justice, and that you appreciate it. I seriously read your review a hundred million times, and I've never been so moved in my entire life. So, before I fill up an entire page, I thank you and commend you. I sincerely appreciate your review.


	8. Pompous Circumstances

_"The warmth of your love  
is like the warmth of the sun  
and this will be our year  
took a long time to come._

Don't let go of my hand,  
now darkness has gone,  
And this will be our year  
took a long time to come."

_-Ok Go_

_"This will Be Our Year_

Chapter 8: Pompous Circumstances

Here's how I see it. No more of this "best and brightest" of your graduating class. No more "highest GPA, most A's, best butt kisser" malarkey. Because those are the people who have absolutely nothing of importance to say. Those are the people who have had their speeches ripped apart, slapped, maimed, stabbed, and spit upon by the administration of the high school, only to be polished and painted like a thrift-store rocking chair, and sent out to the public as though it were a lottery prize. And they weren't even that great to begin with! And the "valedictorian"? Don't get me started. Valedictorian isn't anything to be overwhelmingly proud of. All it means is the person who _gives _the crappy speech. They don't need social skills, or good stage presence. They just have to rave on about how "high school was a defining moment in our lives, and now that it's over, it's time for us to strike out on our own and make our mark on the world in a way that only we can. Because we are all special, special, special, and flowers and cupcakes and merry fun-shine magic, atop a fanciful pixie horse…"

It's a load of crap. Really. The valedictorian, guess what she picked as her "theme" for our graduation speech?

_Escape From Alcatraz_. 

I'm not even kidding.

The "genius" of my graduating class is yammering on like high school was a juvie camp for kids who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Alcatraz was actually an island used as a prison from 1909 to 1963, for the rise of gangsters and mobsters during the Great Depression and Prohibition era of the 20's and 30's, and even before then for prisoners of the Civil War in 1861. The military thought it was ideal because of its isolated location in the middle of a bay, surrounded by freezing waters and strong currents (Can you tell I did a paper on this?). If anything, we shouldn't be celebrating our release from this "prison"; we should be making sure that we did everything in our power to make it worthwhile. If I know anything, she's off to some liberal arts college, where she'll learn to rule the world and not give a care about anyone in the process.

Contrary to what many speculated, Phoebe Hyerdahl was not my graduating class' valedictorian. She was actually fourth in line for the spot, although clearly the most capable of doing the job justice. The runner up (salutatorian) wasn't much better than the valedictorian; he got very sweaty very quickly and blinked too often in ways that upset me. I only pray that he's never in a police lineup. The third in line (I doubt there's an official word for it, and if there is, there shouldn't be) skipped graduation altogether and ran off to London to pursue a singing career. She'd probably deserve the spot of third smartest person in the class if she could actually sing. Which she can't. Oh well.

Glancing around at my class, I can honestly say (without gagging) that I'll probably never forget this. I mean, I'll forget what shoes I was wearing, or where in the bleachers my parents were sitting. But I doubt I'll really forget anything pivotal about today. I couldn't forget the echo of the microphones off of the side of the school building, the white of my graduation dress and gown, the sound of the world still moving forward around us, as though this wasn't the most important days of most of our lives, so far.

I couldn't forget this morning.

* * *

"Helga, are you awake?"

"Yeah, mom, I'm in here." I replied, messing with the tassel on my cap. I had a solid hour before I even needed to be at the school, and decided to burn some time in my room. I put on a smile for my mother's sake before she entered.

"You look beautiful, sweetheart." she said. She sat next to me on my bed and took my hands into her lap. "Your father and I…and Olga, we're all…last summer when we found out…and now-"

The only way to effectively hinder my mother's erratic, though heartfelt rant was to latch on the her. The result was almost certain to be hysterical crying or more incoherent babble. None the less, she was incredibly vulnerable to hugs and immediately reacted by embracing me back.

"Oh, dear, look at me. Anyway, we wanted to give you something before you go off and graduate. It's a little early, but we really wanted you to have it." she said, relatively calmly for her. This had to be something big. Mom is like that. She's one extreme or the other.

Dad entered my room then, holding a box, roughly the size of my head. From then I deducted that I was not getting a pony. I never really wanted a pony; well, that's not true. I did want a pony. For, like, twenty minutes when I was six, but that was just because Olga started horseback riding, and I thought she was getting a pony, so I wanted one too. Then, at the end of her first competition, she stepped into a mound of "unrefined" manure. That same day, I decided a pony wasn't for me.

To add to the surprise that I was even getting anything at all, Dad kissed my forehead and sat on the other side of me on the bed and put the box in my lap. Nothing about the box was special. It was white, barely heavy at all. I looked at my parents questioningly, but my only reply was a nod towards the box.

Thinking it was either something ridiculous (a makeup kit that I'd never use) or something fabulous (keys to a Jaguar…one can hope, I suppose) I sighed, and removed the lid. Peering inside, I was taken aback. I didn't quite understand what I was looking at until I motioned to pick it up. Because if it's obvious shape (or lack thereof) I picked it up from the bottom and lifted it completely out of the box. As much of a "good daughter" I attempt to be, my initial reaction was very slight disappointment.

"A wig?" I asked my parents on both sides of me. Not that I wasn't appreciative; I expressed my disdain over having to wear the synthetic nightmare (a.k.a. my current hairpiece) to graduation, which would be outdoors under the blazing sun. I was happy that they got me a new wig, but not happy that they got me a new wig for graduation. My parents nodded at my question and then back at the wig. I haven't the foggiest idea what they wanted me to do, so I just gave it a quick once over to appease them. The "quick once over" was extended once I found something different about it that set it off from my other wigs (all two of them). "Wait…is this, this isn't human hair, is it?"

Human hair wigs are overall more expensive than synthetic wigs, and even harder to attain in the right color. My initial reasoning for it being synthetic was that it looked exactly like my old hair. And it actually felt like hair, not thin strands of plastic. This was obviously a high-quality wig, and I was sure my parents paid a lot for it.

"Mom, these are really expensive. And I don't need a new wig right now." I told them. "I was actually considering going without one, altogether I mean. You know? Just my cap." This was not a lie, not entirely, anyway. I was considering going sans wig today, but I didn't want to. It'd take more than a clean white cap to cover up my nervousness over other people seeing me without so much as something that resembled hair on my head. Call me superficial, but oh well. Maybe I am, a little bit.

"Well, sweetheart, we kind of got a discount." she said, which obviously meant something else. Why does she insist on doing that? Just come out and say it, mother.

"What does that mean? Romero never gives discounts." I was not lying there.

"Well, he made a special one for us." She said, looking at me, and then the open door to my bedroom. I was very nearly baffled beyond belief, before Olga came in the room. The hallway was dark, and I could barely see her face from here. She was dressed properly for the occasion; a blue and white (her favorite colors) sear-sucker sundress that made the most of her curvaceous figure. Whoever said marriage took a toll on a woman's body, didn't know Olga Rodgers. She could probably go on to have ten or so kids and still look like a runway model.

Once Olga was fully in my room, I realized what made her look different. Her hair, usually long and shiny was pulled back completely from her face, something she rarely did. Olga was under the bizarre impression that she had a big forehead and didn't like to pull her hair back unless it was absolutely necessary or if she were sure that no one outside of her family would see her. There was a small white headband in her hair, something else I usually didn't see much of, but I decided against questioning her. If I knew anything, she was sure to have had a part in donating to my new hairpiece. It didn't hit me, until she stepped into the light of my room how much of a contribution she had to my unorthodox gift.

"Olga…" I stammered, forgetting about the box that had fallen to the floor. "Please tell me you didn't."

"Happy graduation, baby sister." she said, just before I tackled her in a hug.

I made fun of Olga through a lot of my youth for various things. She seemed ditzy, light-headed, and slightly artificial. Nevertheless, every night, when I was supposed to be asleep, she'd sneak in my room and invite me into hers. I'd go, begrudgingly, of course, and watch as she'd turn on her stereo to some classical music station, and groom herself, while going on about school, and boys and whatever else she was into at that stage in her life. I was about four years old when the tradition started, and it went on until I was seven, the year she went off to college. My favorite part of the tradition was, surprisingly, watching Olga brush her hair. Until college, Olga's hair was relatively long; usually no shorter than her shoulder. She'd brush it to perfection, like a doll and shake it around her shoulders and let it fall down her back. It was never as long as it was back then, in her teens, but even now she wore it just past her shoulders, making her look younger than she really was.

I backed away from her, and attempted to look at her angrily. It was difficult seeing as she was A) beaming like some crazy person B) absolutely gorgeous, even with her new short haircut and C) gorgeous and undeniably happy. Party pooper.

"What did you do? And why? And when?" I asked, clearing my head.

"I wanted you to have something that would always remind you of me. And I was going to cut if all off anyway." she laughed through her tears.

"Olga, you're so stupid." I replied. "That doesn't make any sense. Didn't mom and dad tell you about yesterday?" I asked. Not to devalue the gift, but there was no use in giving someone your whole head of hair if they weren't going to be using it for very long.

"Yes, they did. But I'd done this a little while ago. Before I knew." she said, tucking the longer bits of hair behind her ears. The longer hair was in the middle of her head and the shorter hair was in the front and back of her head. The longer parts were combed forward and the shorter parts left to fall just above the nape of her neck. It was a nice haircut for Olga; it went perfectly with her high cheekbones and bright eyes. Part of me was actually jealous of not thinking of it first, as opposed to hacking off all of my hair at once. "And if you don't mind, I'd really like to see it making it's way across the stage." she said, taking the wig off of my bed, where I set it and placing it on my head. She tucked the dirty-blonde hair that really was mine, underneath the wig and tossed the hair this way and that to make it look natural. "Wow." she said, stepping back to admire her work.

"What?" I asked. I was worried for a second that I looked too much like Olga, and I'd have to resort to the itchy monstrosity as an alternative. Although, the idea of looking too much like Olga was not likely; she was gifted with the high cheekbones and soft brow that generally came from my mom's side of the family. I inherited my dad's strong brow and jaw and narrow circular nose (in addition to his quick temper and short fuse, which I don't mind some of the time).

I scrambled for the nearest mirror, which was (obviously) not in my room, but he bathroom just up the hall. I finally realized why the mirror in my bathroom was called a "Vanity Mirror"; I was feeling way too happy with myself at the moment. On Olga's head, the hair was perfect. I couldn't say, really; either they'd had it cut prior to giving it to me, or the packaging effected the fall of the hair, but it looked…well, it looked natural. It looked like it was mine. Instead of fanning out from my face like it had Olga's, the hair framed it, making me look a bit older, but not as old as Olga. The color wasn't even as bleach blonde as I'd always thought it looked on Olga. It could have been the light in the bathroom, but I couldn't help but feel like I was finally moving back towards my old life. As my dad, mom and Olga entered the somewhat cramped bathroom, I felt an overwhelming surge of pride in my family. They weren't perfect, but they tried. All this time, I thought I had to be strong for them, hide from them, even. But the whole time, without even letting me know, they were holding me up.

"Wow." I said, smiling into the mirror. Wow indeed.

* * *

Some people danced. Some bowed after they were done. One girl tripped and another pulled a pair of identical white sunglasses out of her gown and put them on. Whatever the case, nearly everyone felt the need to do something defining right after getting their diploma and advancing to the end of the stage. Even Phoebe waved at her parents from off of stage. I may have been one of the only people who just took their diploma, posed for the photo and left. What? I'm sure my family was sitting in the bleachers holding their breath, thinking I'd do something ridiculous and overly sentimental like snatch my wig off, and throw it to the wind, before my graduating class stands and thunders in applause. Yeah right. Gag me with a spoon, please. That would never happen. I wasn't going to make a big to-do about getting on stage. I've had quite enough attention for one year, thank you very much. The principal was currently blathering on about absolutely nothingness, and I was anxious to get out of this seat. The blinding white coming from the gowns of the girls around me was giving me a headache. The guys, this year, got to wear red, whereas all the girls wore white (a joke went around school after prom that far less girls deserved to be wearing such a color, but since I didn't attend, I like to think I'm exempt from that. Which I am. So there.), and sat on opposite sides of the football field. The lush green grass combined with the sea of red and white of the graduating gowns made me want to stand up and shout "Bienvenidos Espana!" even though the flag of Spain doesn't have any green in it, as far as I know. I'm probably thinking of Italy. But I don't know how to say "Italy" in Spanish. "Bienvenidos Roma!" might work, since Rome is in Italy. Why am I thinking about this, again?

Anyway, I wanted to find Arnold as soon as all this foolishness was over. I downplay graduation, but I really am happy it's here. It's time to move on, after all. Speaking of moving on, I remember why I have to find Arnold. A matter of pressing urgency is quite possibly on the horizon, and I don't even really know what it is yet.

* * *

_One more ring. One more ring and I'll hang up. One more ring and I'll hang up and just wait until morning._

_Wait until morning?! It'll be too late then! There's too much to do in the morning and if what's going to happen is going to happen it better get handled now._

"…Hello?"

Oh wow. She actually answered. Why did I call again? Oh yes. "Hi. Hey there. How are things?"

"…it's 2:13 in the morning, why are you awake?" The groggy voice on the other end replied.

planned _to call. Guess I shouldn't have spent so much time thinking about it. My bad. "Um, well, I have something very…important to inform you of before we graduate tomorrow."_

_"Which is…" Maybe I should have waited. No! No waiting! Here and now! "If you're calling to tell me about your doctor's appointment this afternoon, you already-"_

_"No! No Phoebe, it's bigger than that. Bigger than anything!" Maybe I was overreacting. No, I doubt that. This was huge. If anyone had to know right now, it was Phoebe. Besides, she was level-headed. She'd know what to do._

_"Okay, then, what is it?"_

_"Okay, are you ready?"_

_"Yes. Proceed."_

_"Alright…sometime tomorrow, something crazy is going to happen." I didn't expect her to get the gist of the call from that statement alone, but I wanted to slowly wean Phoebe into the idea before I completely threw it at her._

_"And how is getting a diploma 'crazy', Helga?"_

_"Not that, Phoebe. After that. Or before. Oh my goodness." the realization just dawned on me. "What if it happens during graduation? What if I'm getting my diploma and…oh no."_

_"Helga!" Uh oh. I've incurred the wrath of Angry Phoebe. Here it comes. "You have yet to even reveal what might happen tomorrow that is worth waking me up for. Please get on with it so I can go back to sleep!"_

_"Okay, as my best and most truest friend in the world, I must inform you, that tomorrow…"_

_"…yes?"_

_"Well, let's put it this way: I think that someone, may be doing something in regards someone else after something important happens to both of them. Tomorrow." Confused?_

_"Helga! I'm hanging up in 3..."_

_"Phoebe, I think that-"_

_"2..."_

_"Phoebe, there's-"_

_"1...goodbye, Helga-"_

_"I think Arnold's going to propose to me tomorrow!" Ugh. I said it. Now that I hear it, it sounds a little ridiculous. No way, I have evidence. Solid evidence._

_"Helga…did you take all your medications at the same time again?" Phoebe asked rationally. If ever her sensibleness aggravated me, it was probably now. I know she didn't mean to make me sound like I was completely off my rocker (whatever that means…maybe it means you're crazy if you fall off of a rocking chair? That kind of makes sense…), but all of a sudden I did feel like I'd taken all my medications at once. And speaking of which, will no one ever forget that?! I mean, I do it once, and suddenly it's like my trademark, or something…_

_"No, I did not. I'm being serious, I really think he's going to propose tomorrow."_

_"Helga, trust me, I doubt Arnold's going to propose to you at graduation." Phoebe said, nearly laughing on the other end of the phone. "And why do you think he's going to propose, anyway?"_

_Haha. Time to show her. "Well, I told you about the day the electricity in my house went out right?" I paused for her confirmation, which was brief. "Well, that whole day he was talking about not going away to college. And then a day or so later, he said he had something "important" to "tell" me at "graduation"." I was well aware that she couldn't see my air quotes, but I did them to add to my own dramatic flare._

_"Helga, are you doing air quotes?" Phoebe asked._

_"So what if I am? Anyway, that proves it. He's proposing for sure." I said, sitting back on my bed as though I'd just proven OJ Simpson innocent. I may look into a career in law…_

_Before I was fully aware of it, Phoebe was laughing. Not just laughing she was…what's the word? More than laughing but not, you know, rolling on the floor. Well, she could have been rolling on the floor. There was quite a bit of muffling coming from her end of the phone. Maybe she fell of the bed and was actually-guffaw! That's the word! She was guffawing at me. Guffaw, oh now, that just sounds awkward. Either way, she was laughing very hard at my expense, and I wanted to know why. So I asked._

_"Why are you laughing so hard at my expense, Phoebe?"_

_"Because, you're so insane, I love it!" she said, before she began to "guffaw" again. I mean, honestly, thank goodness I'm not a celebrity; she'd sell my lines to late-night talk show hosts, and what would become of me then? "Trust me, Arnold is definitely not going to ask you to marry him. He's got way more sense than that."_

_"Now hold on one minute, what does that mean? Are you saying it would be a bad idea to marry me?" I asked. Actually, it would be a very bad idea to marry me. We're pretty young for marriage, and I've got a few plans that don't include a diamond ring. Well…I do like diamond rings, but I don't think I'd like to be married before age twenty-three. Probably not even after twenty-three. And Arnold; that'd just be a bad idea for him too. He was bigger than Hillwood, and didn't deserve to have to spend the rest of his life catering to me._

_"Yeah, that would be a bad idea." Phoebe stated bluntly. "But I mean, hey, at least all your wildest dreams are coming true right? Now all you have to do is become president and order a pastrami on rye and save him from Lila's evil clutches. Isn't that how everything fell together?" Phoebe joked. _

_I took the time to pause before answering. "I told you that in confidence, Phoebe."_

_"And I didn't tell anyone who didn't already know." she answered back. Phoebe was getting pretty okay at this. "And besides if he were going to propose to you why would he say that he has something important to tell you? That doesn't make any sense."_

_Now I was getting tired. How could she not see the importance of being proposed to? I didn't understand, so I asked her. "Phoebe, how can you not see the importance of being proposed to?" I waited until she stopped laughing to ask again._

_"Because when you ask someone to marry you, you do just that. You _ask _them. Arnold said he had something important to _tell _you." she stated as if she knew everything in the world. She probably does. Oh darn, now I really do look like an idiot._

_"Well, if it's not that, then what is it? I've been trying to figure it out ever since he told me." I admitted. _

* * *

Before I was aware of it, everyone was throwing their caps into the air simultaneously, to the background music of our alma mater (let's think about it…who actually knows their high school alma mater? No one, that's who. Do you know why? Because its serves no purpose. It is a song to praise the school. And it's probably in some obscure place like hanging outside of the guidance counselor's office, and no one really goes there…). I avoided the tradition altogether; I paid entirely too much for this cap and gown, and I'd rather not just throw half of it into the air. Not to mention the fact that when all those hats come down it's probably not a bad idea to have something to protect your head from any of those pointier sides. Maybe _I_ should be the valedictorian… 

Amongst the flying caps, I saw Arnold, who had, surprisingly, been motioning for me to come over. In the red and white splattered chaos, I made my way over to him and met him in the vacant space where the sets of boys and girls seats were separated. We met wordlessly, despite the noise around us, and before I was aware of it, I was following him off to a secluded part of the field, where no one had wandered off into yet. I would have been overjoyed if I wasn't so scared.

"Um, Arnold-" I started, before he cut me off. I had to explain what a bad idea this was.

"You know how I said I had something important to tell you the other day?" he asked eagerly. He looked so happy. Like a child who actually got a puppy. I couldn't very well tell him now. Maybe appease him for the time being and let him know later. But that wouldn't be any better, I guess. For the sake of continuing the conversation and making my brain shut up, I nodded and waited for him to go on. "Well, I hope you're not mad, but I wanted to tell you today. Don't be mad, okay?" he said, reaching his hand into his crimson gown.

Despite the sting that shot through my chest, I couldn't help but be a little excited. I may know what's best for me, and Arnold, but darn it, I'm a girl. And girls, you know, like stuff like this. Or something.

"Arnold, I couldn't be mad at you. But don't you think-"

"Close your eyes." he interrupted again, his hand still in his gown. Reluctantly, I closed my eyes, hoping against hope that I was wrong, but sort of knowing that I wasn't. I cupped the two of my hands together and awaited the inevitable. My right eyebrow shot up as my eyes remained shut, when I realized something distinctly un-ring box shaped was in my had. Opening my eyes, I was met with a big, white envelope, and of course, my brain took it and ran.

'Oh, I see.' my brain said, beginning to "reason". 'The plane tickets are in here. We're going to El Salvador or someplace exotic like that, and then you'll get the ring.' Stupid brain.

"Umm, what's this?" I asked Arnold.

"Look at it." he said, as if I wasn't already. What was there to look at? A big white envelope. I turned it over and saw his name on it. It'd obviously been opened; I could tell from the uneven tear across the top. Why on earth was Arnold giving me his old, and somewhat heavy mail?

"Arnold, I don't know what you want me to say. You got a heavy envelope, from some school in Kentucky, and you practically ripped the whole front half…", I started, finally realizing what I was saying. I looked up at him.

He was beaming.

"You got a big envelope. From a school. From a university." I said, grasping the weight of my words. "You're going to college." I said, in amazement. Arnold was going to college. Arnold was going _away _to college.

"I wanted to tell you first. Gerald and Phoebe don't even know yet. Just me and my grandparents. And you. Are you mad?" he asked, nervously.

"Mad? What? No! Of course not! Go away to college!" I said, wrapping my arms around his neck. I repeated the thought in my head over and over. After we parted, I took a deep breath and exhaled smiling. "I'm so relieved." I said, not really thinking.

"Relieved? Why?" he asked, turning the large white envelope around in his hands.

"Oh." I said, catching myself, but obviously too late. "You know, like, happy, and stuff. That you got into college. University of Kentucky. That's something."

"Oh come on, that's not what you mean at all. What is it really?" he asked, seeing through my weak façade. I believe I was in a predicament.

"Well," I began, deciding to come out with it, but attempting to do so in the most discreet and subtle way possible. "I thought…you know, because you said that you had something important to tell me…that, you know…" I trailed off. This was going smoothly.

"That what?" he urged.

"I thought that, check this out, you were going to propose to me. Isn't that funny?" I asked, followed by a half-hearted laugh that dripped with awkwardness. Upon hearing no laughter from Arnold, I abruptly stopped, making it look that much more…fake. Which it was. "Guess not. I mean, usually when one of us has 'something' to tell the other, it's generally not a good thing."

"You thought I was going to propose to you?" he asked, as though he wasn't sure if he'd heard me correctly.

"Well for the sake of argument, I was going to say no anyway." That was dumb. Way to keep the awkwardness to a minimum, Helga.

"You would have said no?!" he asked, shocked, but not quite offended. I fear I will forever confuse and baffle any true friend I'll ever gain. It is the sad story of my life.

"Yeah, I would have said no!" I replied, obviously ignoring the rational part of my brain that was telling me to shut up. I wish the stupid organ would make up my mind, and decide whose side it's on; mine or mine. "Do you honestly think marrying me would have been a good idea?" I asked.

For a minute, he looked to be thinking, but I couldn't tell what exactly he was thinking about. I wish I were that hard to read. "Yeah, you're right. That would've been a bad idea." he said.

"Hey!" I said. Now _I _was offended. "It's okay for me to say that it's a bad idea for you to marry me, but you can't."

"Why not? You said it was a bad idea for you to marry me. Why can't I say that it'd be a bad idea for me to marry you?" he asked, flaunting his brief moment of superior knowledge.

"Because…it just is. And what, pray tell, would be so horrible about being married to me?" I asked, as if I didn't know already.

"Well for one thing, I refuse to work with your father. Nor do I want to live with your parents. And frankly, I'm not to eager about having children so early in a relationship." he said, non-chalantly. We'd begun walking by then, and I stopped dead in my tracks as he continued on. He finally turned around and saw the qualities look on my face. "What?" he asked.

"You had a dream that we got married?" I asked. I'd obviously heard of the dream the day after he'd had it, but not all the details.

"Uh, yeah. A long time ago."

"And we lived with my parents?" I asked.

"Yeah." he admitted.

"And I had your children…?" I asked. I definitely missed _that _part of the dream. I guess there are even things Arnold kept from Gerald back then.

"Well, not really-"

"Are you now saying that you _didn't _have a dream that I had your children?" I asked. This was fun. Arnold always got to be the rational sounding one. It's nice to change the tables a little.

"Technically…" he started, thinking I'd interrupt again. When he saw that I only raised my eyebrow again, he continued. "Technically, you didn't _have _my children. A stork brought them." he said, seemingly proud of himself.

I waited a few moments before going on. "You are aware, Arnold, that that's not quite how-"

"Yes, I'm very aware of that Helga!" he exclaimed, before joining me in laughter. He waited until we'd both stopped laughing before talking again. "Well, even though I'm not proposing marriage to you, can I still come back to good old Hillwood and pay you a visit?"

I tried to look contemplative for a moment. "No." I answered simply.

"No?" he questioned. We were still a few yards off from the excited throngs of fellow graduates and parents who had stormed the field to congratulate their children. "I can't come visit unless I marry you?" he asked, clearly not serious.

"No, it's just that…I may not be here when you come to visit. Here in Hillwood, I mean." I said. Oh, it's fun to string people along.

"You might not be here? What does that-" he asked. He stopped talking when he saw the look on my face.

"You're not the only one who got a fat envelope from a college." I said, matter-of-factly.

"What? Where? When?" Arnold asked, clearly more ecstatic than I was when he told me of his acceptance. Maybe because he wasn't about to die of nervousness, thinking I was going to ask him to marry me.

"Vassar. About an hour south. Just recently. I turned in my application late, but I guess they saw something worth accepting." I said. I was calm on the outside, but I was nearly falling over inside. My biggest fear was that cancer would keep me from doing everything I wanted to. To be honest, I don't think I would have had the courage to apply for a school like Vassar if I hadn't already displayed it in regards to something as big as cancer. Speaking of which, I nearly forgot to tell him the rest of my news. "It's going to be weird, though." I said.

"What is? Being away from home?" Arnold asked, concerned.

"Well, that too, I guess. It's just that…" I trailed off, looking distraught. Maybe I should major in acting. "This whole year…I got three days off school for chemo."

Arnold looked almost upset, and for a minute I contemplated ending the joke and just coming out with it. The thought left as quickly as it came, though.

"And now…I don't." I finished. I looked at him and waited for a response. I was met with confusion. "I mean, how am I going to handle going to school everyday, all week? That's going to be a big change if nothing else." I said, as though not divulging anything important.

"Wait, you…I'm confused, you…" he stammered. He certainly looked confused, but there was something else there. Color me cliché, but he looked, incredibly honest. It was very nearly the most honest Arnold I'd ever seen.

"Arnold, I'm on remission. I still have to do a few tests and I have some meds to take to get my immune system back to normal, but yeah. I'm on remission." I said, nearly breaking down myself. I was on remission. No detectable traces of cancer within me. I'd found out yesterday; I hadn't planned on having such an important doctor's appointment a day before my high school graduation, but it was the only day they had available, and I really wanted to know before I got too excited about Vassar. The fact that they accepted my application late was phenomenon enough, and I definitely didn't want to push it. Of course, there was no guarantee to remission. There was no 'cure' for my cancer, and there was no way for me to know in advance how long one would stay in remission. Cancer could come back at any time for any reason. But for the time being, I was relieved. I was a high school graduate, cancer survivor, and pleasantly unengaged. A good year, overall.

"But now, so like…you're better? Like, you're going to be alright?" Arnold asked. If I hadn't known better, I'd have expected him to ask me to pinch him to make sure he wasn't dreaming. To be perfectly frank, I wasn't entirely sure if I was dreaming or not.

"Yeah, for now, I guess." I admitted, becoming suddenly bashful.

Instead of any words, Arnold pulled me close to what would have been a bone crushing hug, had I not anticipated it. By now, I was sure that my parents were either looking for me frantically, Olga following closely behind with her fancy camera, waiting to take a hundred-million photos. That or they saw from the stands what was going on and decided against interrupting. I would like to think that it's the latter, but more than likely the former. After Arnold finished suffocating me with his broad chest and cheap cotton graduation gown (not to mention repeating the same line over and over, though I couldn't tell what it was, I knew he was saying it over and over), we parted, if that's what you chose to call it. We were still within pretty close proximity of one another, standing, waiting, breathing. The usual.

It seemed like I was going to have to be the one to speak up. Go figure.

"Is this going to be the awkward silence before we kiss?" I asked, frankly.

He looked almost taken aback for a minute, probably from my bluntness, and then glad. I swear, I have to do everything in this twisted little relationship.

"Well, only if there's any chance of you actually kissing me. Then, yes, it might be."

Might be? I wasn't going to settle for that. It's my graduation, I got into college, I'm on remission. If not a brand new Mustang, I deserve at least a kiss. "I'm not going to kiss you, Arnold. I always have to prompt everything out of you. It'd be much appreciated if you'd just do something without me having to tell you all the time-"

In the movies, spontaneous kisses are a big to-do. For one thing, they're big. Lots of lip and face and all that stuff going on all at once. The world stops and the couple is the focus of whatever group of people they're in and Celine Dion comes out from the forest and start to sing. That's how it works.

Umm, how about no?

It was, compared to most, very modest. He secured my top lip in between his, exactly as I always thought it should be. I wasn't sure how long the lip-lock lasted, but Arnold definitely made the most of his time. He varied pressure between the top lip and the bottom; it was honestly the only kiss wherein I didn't have to do any work or think about it at all. I just stood in front of him and…felt. Everything. There weren't any fireworks going on behind my eyelids, but there was a kind of spark. I felt his hand brush the side of my face and melted more than I thought I possibly could. I was so relieved that my brain finally went on vacation, that I didn't notice when he pulled away, smiling. Pulled by reddened, plump bottom lip underneath my top and grinned as well. Arnold kept his hand on the side of my face and I leaned it to it, only because I had not idea what else to do with it. I was suddenly too embarrassed to look at him, so I looked away, sheepishly. His voice drew my eyes back to his face, as his other hand grasped for mine.

"Your hair looks really pretty today." he said, and I could not find a more fitting reply than another kiss. How appropriate.

**_"The warmth of your smile  
smile for me, little one,  
and this will be our year,  
took a long time to come._**

You don't have to worry  
all your worried days are gone  
this will be our year  
took a long time to come."

* * *

Whoo! Be proud!!! Do it! Right now. Forget all you haters, that kiss rocked. I was way less nervous about it, because I didn't let myself get all crazy over it. I think it's good. You should too. 

A lot of this chapter was stolen from my own high school graduation:

1. My valedictorian's theme really was "Escape From Alcatraz". She was a fool. Her speech made no sense. Neither did the sweaty Salutorian. They both sucked.

2. My school colors were red and white. The girls really did wear white and the boys wore red. If anyone wants to see the only decent photos of me, they're from that day and that day alone. I may let a few people see, but not the lot of you.

3. The girl who took the sunglasses out of her gown and put them on at the end of the stage was…me. My picture was in the newspaper the next day. I was clearly the coolest girl at graduation. Again, some of you can see it. Maybe.

4. My sister did give me fabulous grad present, but not her hair. But she did recently cut her hair really short, and I was thinking, 'Hey…Olga would do that…and give the hair to Helga!' So this chapter goes out to my sister, who looks certifiably better looking than me thanks to her new haircut. Showoff…

One more chapter to go. Hope everyone enjoyed.

-PointyO aka Antoinette


	9. Sometimes the Sun

**Chapter Nine: Sometimes the Sun**

"_Tonight I watched the lights go out in your house,_

_Wondering how I could get so deep,_

_And you could still get sleep. _

_In vain I blame my trembling on the cold air, _

_But I can't hide that I've relied on you, _

_Like yellow does on blue."_

_Something Corporate_

"

* * *

**December 14th**

I know where I should be. I should be in Professor Peterson's Microbiology class, finishing up an essay on the life span of a single-celled organism. I should be in my dorm room, stuffing my face, messing around with my roommate and relaxing from a long week of finals. I should be in the campus' library, starting my recommended reading for the up and coming semester. I should be doing all of the things that a normal college freshman should be doing.

But I never was very normal, so why start now?

Instead of being in one of those places, I am crutched down in the last aisle of a grocery store, reading the backs of novels. Granted, the grocery store is not my favorite place to look for a good read, but I'm desperate. I haven't read a book (recreationally) in weeks. And in no offense to my family, I am nearly dying of boredom. After a while, even football games get boring. As I was saying, I am putting immense pressure on my ankles and knees in this position, searching for a book to take home. The only book that catches my eye is big and a bit expensive, but interesting none the less. I already own two Dean Kootz books, and sadly, I found myself disinterested after the fourth chapter. Hopefully I can break the streak. I placed the book in my basket next to the odd assortment of items and stood up. Before I could fish my phone out of my bag to check the time, I was interrupted by a voice coming from a tall figure in front of me.

"If I received a nickel for every time I saw someone as beautiful as you, I'd have five cents."

Before I knew it, I was smiling. Not because I was happy or even flattered by this guy's attention. For one thing, it was probably the funniest pick up line I'd ever heard. And secondly, I wasn't very used to being hit on in such a comical manner. Such a thing was so rare in college that I usually didn't prepare myself. I had to give it to this guy; he _did _catch me off guard.

"Too bad you don't have any common sense." I retorted with the first thing that entered my mind. Not to shabby, I told myself. I attempted to walk away from this guy, but I was struck with an odd sense of nostalgia, and in turn, I found myself taking an extra moment to stare at him. He obviously took this as something more. Before he could spit out another cheesy line, I spoke. "Do I know you?"

He began to squirm now. Running a hand through his dark black hair, he replied. "I-I don't think so…maybe. I'm not sure…" he said, stumbling over his words.

The nervous smile set it off. Laughing at myself (and somewhat at him), I let my shoulders fall and eased the disapproving look from my face. Tilting my head in a way that resembled a mother chastising her son, I rested my hands on my hips and went on. "Sidney Taylor Gilfaldi, what are you doing trying to pick up girls in the grocery store?"

Now he really got nervous. Maybe I should have told him who I was before revealing that I knew who he was.

"H-How do you know my name?" he asked, backing away.

"I've only known you since preschool, doi." I said, adding my old phrase in as a hint.

"Helga?" he asked, approaching me again, his words tainted with disbelief. When I simply beamed in response, he addressed me again. "Helga Pataki, no way!" he said excitedly, grabbing me up in a slightly awkward hug and gaining the attentions of several other shoppers.

"In the flesh." I said once he released me.

"Boy howdy, you look different." he said, more than likely referring to my hair. He, on the other hand, had grown, even since graduation. He was already taller than me long before we graduated, but he still seemed to have grown since.

"What about you? You're practically a giant." I said, still smiling. He was the first classmate of mine that I'd seen since coming home. I hadn't expected to see very many of my old classmates. "So, what are you doing here? Other than looking for a date." I joked.

"Hey, I don't have to look for dates." he said, avoiding my gaze. I knew it was you the entire time."

"Of course you did." I said, leaving the aisle and heading towards the front of the store to check out.

"And what are you doing here? I heard you left home for college."

"I came back for break." I said. "What about you? What are you up to?"

"I'm going to school at home these days. And, with the help of my new kicks, wining and dining." he bragged, motioning down to his flawless white tennis shoes.

"Aww, you got rid of your beetle boots." I said, in mock sympathy. He'd been wearing the same kind of boots since I knew him, and I can't say that I've ever seen him wearing anything else.

"Yeah, I figured it was time to move on. Speaking of new shoes." he began, motion downwards to my feet. "You might want to look into some yourself. Yours are a bit outdated, Helga."

Frowning, I took another look at my light brown boots. Olga had bough them for me, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that I pretty much hated them. They were the kind that people wore with everything from dressy skirts to pants tucked into the wide leg of the boot, to pajamas. I did not like them, but considering they were a gift from my sister, and she just so happened to be at home when I was, I figured I'd pacify her and pretend like I loved them. My ensemble consisted of a blue hooded sweatshirt that read "Vassar" in white letters across the front, blue jeans and the boots I so loathed. Very chic.

"Hey, Olga bought them for me." I said. "Actually, she'd the whole reason I'm here at all." I said, walking to the express line at the front of the store. Loading my items on the conveyer belt, I turned back to Sid.

"Your sister sent you to the store to et a jar of peanut butter, mustard, butter, a loaf of pumpernickel bread and a book?" he asked, not convinced.

"She's having a baby, and she's got all these weird cravings. For now it's grilled peanut butter and mustard sandwiches on pumpernickel." I said. He wrinkled his face in response. "Don't ask."

"Oh I won't." he said, putting his things on the black conveyer belt behind mine. "So how are you and Arnold doing?" he asked, nonchalantly. I must have looked at him questioningly, because he continued and began explaining himself. "Well, the two of you did get your pictures in the newspaper."

"Had I known the photographer was there, I probably wouldn't have kissed him." I said, laughing. I did not know until the next morning that the private moment that Arnold and I had at graduation was documented for two different local newspapers, each in love with the thought of having two students kissing on the front page of their circulars. Since I hadn't really spoken to anyone after graduation, I wasn't sure how many people knew about Arnold and I.

"We're fine. He's at University of Kentucky now." I said. I was somewhat disappointed that I had not heard from him yet. He told me that he'd also be leaving school early (but still after finals) to spend the whole of his winter break in Hillwood, but was vague about when. I did want to spend time with my family, but I also wanted to see Arnold. I shook myself from my melancholy thoughts and paid the cashier for my food, and accepted the change. I wanted to say goodbye to Sid, so I waited until he paid, and walked with him out into the frigid air of the night.

"Do you need me to walk you to your car?" he asked, turning to me.

"Nah, I walked. I'll be fine."

"Okay, tell Arnold I said 'hey'". He said, smiling and walking tin the opposite direction of the way I was headed. There were not many people walking around as I expected, the air was cold, and I was glad that under my sweatshirt, I wore two sweaters and camisole.

The streetlights shone yellow on the pavement and cast long shadows in front of me when I passed them. There were icy patches on the sidewalks where rainwater and puddles froze over during the night. I tried to take in everything from my surroundings, so much so, that I nearly missed my own street. The city held an atmosphere that college did not. In college, everyone was so wrapped up in their sorority or their credits or their lives that no one really cared about anyone else. Despite being a city, Hillwood was profoundly personal. If a tree was cut down, everyone knew where and why. If someone had a baby, everyone new when they were born and who they were named after. It was that kind of place. And as much as I yearned to get out, I missed it. I missed home.

Coming up my street, I noticed the patch of snow outside of my neighbor's house. The snowfall was minimal this year, so far at least, and the most any one had was hardly enough to make a decent snowman. Resting the brown paper bag on the sidewalk, I bend down and scooped up as much snow as I could gather, and formed a hard, somewhat dirty snowball. Clutching the packed snow, I tossed it in the air a few times, before advancing on to my own house. I was cold, and it was getting late, but I wasn't ready to go inside just yet. The cold night air filled my lungs, and I could not get enough of it. Disregarding the groceries momentarily, I crouched on the sidewalk in front of my house, and began counting backwards.

"Three, two one!" I called to no one in particular, an began sprinting around my street, looping around until I got back to my house. My hair blew from my face, like a dark curtain following me. By the time I was directly across the street from where my lope began, I could feel the warm tears free themselves from my eyes, and run down my cheeks. Once back at my house, I nearly collapsed on the small lawn, but settled with carrying the bag to my front steps.

Looking around the lawn and sidewalk, I could not find the brown paper bag that contained the only remedy for Olga's hunger pangs. I knew she'd be upset that I let her food get stolen because I felt the insatiable need to run as fast as I could for no reason. The store, by this time was closed, and even if it was not, I had no intention of walking all the way back there and back home. My eyes suddenly darted to my front steps, where the streetlights cast a dark shadow over the door, but not dark enough to hide the person sitting there, or my bag of food.

"Looking for something?" it said, standing and slowly advancing towards me.

"I could ask you the same thing." I said, slyly.

"Care to explain?" it asked, pointing towards the end of the street, obviously referring to the impromptu run I'd just taken.

"Care to explain?" I repeated, motioning towards the front steps.

"I missed you." Arnold said, stepping fully into the glow of the streetlight. He'd changed as well, though not as drastically as I thought he would. He hair was cut shorter, and combed from his face. He stood in front of me, dressed lighter than I, a clean dress shirt under a sweatshirt and blue jeans, yet still looking well put together, as usual.

"I missed you too." I admitted, still upset that he hadn't told me when he was coming back home, but happy that he surprised me. "Sorry I didn't tell you." I said, biting my lip, letting my dark hair fall over my face. "I wanted it to be surprise."

"Well, mission accomplished." he said, laughing and pulling me into a tight hug. I buried my face into his broad shoulder and smiled, glad that he was not upset. After arriving at college, my hair had already begun to grow out in it's natural color: a light auburn brown. My father's hair was the same color before he went grey and I found not reason to fight it by dying my hair. My hair grew back softer and darker than it probably would have otherwise, and was easier to manage. Falling to my shoulders, my hair was the only thing about me that seemed to have changed. Pulling back, Arnold stared at me in the eyes and spoke. You look really nice, Helga."

"Thanks." I said, taking his hand in mind and walking him to the door. "Did you miss Hillwood at all?" I asked. I was curious if the change in scenery made him dislike the city. I was but an hour away, but he was several states away from the place where he'd grown up.

"Yeah. I missed the little things." He said simply. Arnold's presence was so comforting, and I was taken aback when he abruptly stopped in front of my house.

"What's wrong?" I asked, wrinkling my brow in concern.

"There is something…' he began, his voice fading out as he met my eyes. "There's something I really missed." he said, quietly.

Before I could ask what it was, he turned to me, and brought his hand to the side of my face, drawing my head towards him and my lips towards his. Gently he pressed his lips to mine, approaching the kiss as one would a butterfly. His attention shifted from my top lip to my bottom, and the kiss became for fervent, on both of our parts. After what felt like days, we parted, with him leaving meek kissed on the corners of my mouth and face.

"I missed that too." I said, smiling and escorting him into my parents house. The evening was off to a good start.

* * *

Aww. And that's the end. Not sure how I feel about that last line. It may or may not change. Depending on my mood. I wrote this whole chapter in one night. Yay for me. 

I'm kind of sad it's over, I have to say that this is my best work yet. The only story, I think, that started off strong and stayed that way. And yes, people, I wrote another kiss. They're getting easier as I go. Another "yay" for me.

Nothing else to say, really. Hope the ride was as fun for you guys as it was for me.

-PointyObjects


End file.
